


Barnes' Books

by BromeliadLucy



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: A cat called Steve, F/M, Gen, bookshop au, marvel AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-09-26 22:55:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 30,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9927794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BromeliadLucy/pseuds/BromeliadLucy
Summary: James Barnes' bookshop is the right kind of bookshop, even if he's well over 90 now and in need of some help.





	1. Chapter 1

This is my favourite place at the best of times, but on a day like today, when the rain is relentless, the sky is dark, and I’m finding life hard, today it’s even more important. Today is the day to be lost in a book. 

When this bookshop opened, I have to be honest and say I barely noticed. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love bookshops, but I always went to the big one, in the centre of town. They have all the new stuff, they do the good deals, it’s light and bright and airy. But then I wandered into this shop one day and realised the other place had bookshops _all_ wrong.

Sure, they have all the new stuff, but meh, I can get that online without even needing to take off my pyjamas or open the curtains. Deals are great, but I’d rather find a real bargain than pick a second book that I’m not really interested in just because it’s half price. And light, bright and airy? No! You can’t get lost in a book when there’s fluorescent lights and beechwood floors and modernity.

So let me tell you a bit about Barnes’ Books. It’s small, it’s cramped, there’s usually a bucket on the floor somewhere because the roof leaks. Today there’s two. Most of the shelves are full of second-hand or remaindered books, and if there’s a system, I haven’t found it yet. That’s the joy though, you run your finger along the shelves and suddenly there’s the book you didn’t know you were looking for. I swear there’s magic in this place. And then, even better, there’s armchairs, here and there. Over-stuffed and ripped armchairs, the kind you can curl your feet into. They’re not grouped together around a coffee table, they’re solitary, with their backs to the room. Who wants to read in company?! The whole point of a book is that it’s just you and those pages, together, and you don’t want to get pulled out of that world by someone sniffing, or taking a phone call. Oh, and just to add a final glory, there’s a cat. A beautiful, sleek tabby, always curled up in a chair somewhere but equally happy, if not more so, on someone’s lap. She’s the most elegant cat I’ve ever seen. And she’s called Steve. No, I don’t know either.

But better than the random books and the dark corners and the armchairs, is the proprieter. James Barnes. He must be 90, I swear, but I consider him a friend now. Family even. Encyclopaedic memory for books – you go in and say ‘so I read this book, and it had a tree in it, and there were three toads, and a witch’ and he looks at you, eyes twinkling, then holds up a finger, scurries off, and comes back with just the one you’d forgotten. See, magic. And when you don’t have a book you’re looking for, that’s when he finds just what you need too. I’ve taken to going in there quite often, since things got bad, and he doesn’t seem to mind if you don’t buy anything. He’ll take one look at you, and usher you to a chair, and bring you something, and it’s just the thing you didn’t know you needed. The day Brock dumped me, he sat me down and brought me this amazing book about revenge. Sure, it didn’t heal my heartbreak, but it made me smile through the tears. When I lost my job, he brought me poetry about creating a new life. Didn’t pay the bills, but it did distract me.

James has a coffee machine always on the go, and an honesty box, so on a day like today I don’t have to feel too guilty about sitting out the storm inside here. I’ve paid for my coffee, and the shop’s practically empty, all the sensible people having stayed home. I’m sitting in an armchair by the window. Part of me is watching the rain, part of me is keeping an eye on a bucket nearby in case it gets too full, and part of me is reading. A romance. Not my usual taste at all, but James handed it to me before I’d even got my coat off, with a wink. 

The rain shows no sign of disappearing but it’s relaxing to listen to the rain on the windows, and the plink plink of the bucket, and it’s warm and dark, and so it’s not long until I’ve dozed off. I’m having a dream, weird one, about romance and James, which is kinda icky when you think about it, but I guess that’s just my brain sorting through things. Anyway, warm, drowsy, plink plink drip, but then suddenly I hear a noise, and I’m jerked awake.

At first, I can’t work out what’s happened, but then I get up, and over the back of the armchair, I see James, lying stretched out on the floor. He’s slipped, there must have been a puddle and he’s groaning in pain, his leg at an unnatural angle. I rush straight over, skidding a bit myself on the damp floor, see if I can get him upright but it’s pretty clear that there’s something seriously wrong, so I ring for an ambulance.

After that there’s a flurry of activity. I grab a blanket off the back of one of the armchairs, where it’s been hiding a tear in the fabric, try and keep James warm, put a cushion under his head. He’s groaning and can’t bear to move an inch, but looks so uncomfortable. He tries to give me some advice, about where the keys are, and the cat food, but I just shush him, tell him I’ll sort everything. Finally the ambulance arrives and they lift him gently onto a stretcher and wheel him away. I promise to lock up and follow him there.

I’ve never been in the shop alone before, obviously, and my mind is distracted with concern for James. I find his keys, throw some food out for Steve, check all the windows, then I grab my coat and lock the door behind me. I’m holding on to a thread of hope that James has just bruised something, and that he’ll be back again in a few days but a part of me knows that this might have been my last time in the shop.

At the hospital, there’s a lot of waiting around, before I find someone who gives me the news I’m dreading. Broken hip. They’re talking surgery, recovery, care homes; asking me all these questions about his next of kin and am I family, and it’s heartbreaking. James isn’t family, but he’s felt as close as one these last few months. All those quiet afternoons in the shop when it was just the two of us, we’d talk, and you’d never have known there was such an age gap. He’s a young heart in an old body. The tales he told of the ‘40s, and the war, enough to make me blush at times, and I can see the young charmer still peeking out from behind the grey hair. But I’m not family, so I’m going to have to find them for him.

They let me in to see James eventually. He’s on pain killlers, all tucked up in a bed, in a ward full of old men, sheets pulled up to his chin. He looks so old all of a sudden, the magic is gone, and I want to cry. His voice sounds all trembly and he holds on to my hand a little too long, a little too tight.

I ask him about his family, but he’s not making any sense. I guess the meds are knocking him about a bit. Just keeps telling me ‘you’ll have to call James. Find James. Bring James home.’ I don’t have the heart to point out that he is James and that right now, I don’t think he’ll ever be coming home. So I nod, and agree, and tell him I’ll bring James home. And that seems to relax him, because he smiles, and drifts slowly off to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s late by the time I get back to the shop but I’m wired, and worried, and feel like I have to do something, anything. I don’t really know where to start though, I realise that for all James and I talk, he gets a lot more out of me than I ever have out of him. I know some basics, he served in the war, married, had a son who died in service too, but that’s it. I have no idea who’s around now. It’s sad, that such a great old man should turn out to be so alone. 

So I let myself into the shop, the little bell on the door jangling as I open it, but no James popping out from behind a shelf with a twinkle in his eye today. I don’t like to put the lights on, it doesn’t feel right, so I lock the door behind me, and head to the back. I’ve never been into the office before, but I push the door open, and head in.

Part of me was expecting an office like the bookshop; an old desk, with a bundle of paper jammed higgledy-piggledy into each drawer; surfaces piled with books and papers, with me searching through the night until I find some vital clue hidden amongst the yellowing receipts. I mean, that’s what’d happen in one of the books James sold.

But this man was in the army for years, he’s run a successful(ish) business for decades. You don’t go through army training and file taxes without some kind of system. So the office is pretty tidy. There’s shelves of files, all labelled carefully in James’ beautiful old handwriting. There’s an old desk, but when I open the first drawer, the pens and pencils are laid out with military precision. The next drawer has cheque books and receipts, all carefully clipped together. I sit down in the desk chair and rest my head in my hands because this is all too hard, too personal. Every scrap of James’ writing brings his face to my mind. I feel like I don’t belong here, I have to find someone who does.

I take a deep breath and then start again. The top desk drawers all contain business things, but when I get to the bottom drawer, I find more personal effects. It feels odd to look through them, but James needs family right now, surely. So I pull out a big leather box from the drawer, and open it up.

The top layer of the box is full of photos. There’s some amazing black and white pictures, of a man who must be James, in uniform. Wow, if I didn’t know he was currently in hospital with a broken hip, I’d be fanning myself, he was a cutie in the war! Something about a man in uniform… I get lost in thought as I look through them. There’s pictures of him with his regiment I guess, and there’s pictures of him with people I’d guess are his parents, then there’s a bundle of photos, all featuring the same man. Tall, blond, pure muscle. I turn one over and it’s labelled: ‘Steve, ‘41’. As if on cue, Steve the cat wanders in and climbs up onto the desk beside me, nudging my cheek with the top of her head. I give her a distracted stroke as I keep turning through the photos, finding more, with James and Steve laughing together. The sight of the two of them in uniform must have got those ‘40s girls hormones stirring patriotically.

Under the war-time photos, there’s a book wrapped carefully in tissue. I know I should be looking for letters, or an address book, but I’m caught up in the nostalgia, I guess, so I unwrap it. It’s a wedding album. I flick through, and feel my heart tug at the love in those pages. There’s James, in a suit, and he’s beaming down at a woman beside him. She’s got the most amazing dark hair, all curled ‘40s style. There’s Steve again, in a suit, beside James. Best man, I’d guess. There’s the proud parents, friends, confetti throwing. There’s a lifetime of love in their eyes, but I know Dot died a good few years ago. I re-wrap the book and carry on, telling myself my eyes are watering due to dust.

Under the album it’s like a walk through history. The pictures go from black and white, to colour, and across the decades. Here’s Dot in an amazing ‘50s dress, then James with his hair long in the ‘60s, and a godawful moustache that has to be ‘70s that makes me snort, startling the cat. Dot’s got a powersuit in the 80s and big hair, but by then James is already going grey. There aren’t many snapshots, so I lay them aside and pull out the next envelope. It’s labelled ‘Jimmy’, so I guess it’s what James used to call himself, but when I open it up, I realise what I’m looking at.

First there’s a picture of a smiling ‘50s Dot, holding a tiny baby, all wrapped in a soft white blanket. Then there’s a couple of pictures of a toddler; a small boy clutching a toy car proudly; then a serious looking school boy with grey shorts. I keep going through these photos until I come to one showing James – my James – standing next to a man in uniform. This is Jimmy - James Jr - his son. The one that died. It’s definitely not the dust now as I keep turning through the pictures, seeing Jimmy’s wedding photos, then his wife, all long ‘70s hair, clutching another baby. The last photo shows James, grey-haired and beaming, with one arm around his son, and holding his new grandchild in his arms. He looks so happy. I turn the picture over, and see some unfamiliar writing – Dot’s maybe. It says ‘James, Jimmy Jr, and Jamie III!’ Three generations of James’. One now in hospital, one long buried, and one… where? I don’t remember James ever speaking of a grandson, this James the third.

I put the photos back into the envelope, wipe my eyes, and carry on. Right at the bottom of the box, I find an address book. I turn to ‘B’ first, in case James Barnes III is in there, but don’t find anything. Try ‘J’ but nothing still. Then I turn to the first page, and there it is, in James’ best handwriting. ‘In the event of an emergency, please call James Barnes III…’ There’s a couple of numbers, crossed out and changed over the years, but there’s one still un-crossed. This must be it.

I don’t know what I’m going to say, I don’t know what kind of relationship James and Jamie have, but I have to try. I take a deep breath, and dial the number on the old office phone. I hear it ringing at the other end then an automatic voice clicks in. 

‘The person at this number can’t take your call right now. Please leave your message at the tone.’ Then a beep.

‘Hi, you don’t know me, I hope this is Jamie Barnes, I’m a friend of your grandfather. There’s been an accident, he’s in hospital. He’s OK, but he needs his family. Can you call me?’ I leave my name and number and hang up. I’ve done my bit. It’s down to Jamie the third now.


	3. Chapter 3

I guess I’m expecting a phone call that night, or the next morning, so I’m on edge. After I left the message, I fed Steve, locked up and went home, but I couldn’t sleep well, kept waking up, thinking I’d heard the phone ring. It didn’t though, laying silent and useless. 

The next morning I went back to the hospital, glad for the first time that I was out of work and could be there for James. He looked pale against the hospital sheets, and the nurse told me he’d had a bad night with the pain. They planned to operate that afternoon, all being well. I held James’ hand, and told him that I’d called his grandson, and that I was sure he’d be here soon. He’d just been given another dose of pain meds and wasn’t really with it, so it was hard to judge if calling Jamie had been the right thing to do. I wittered on for a bit, telling him that I’d feed Steve, but I think he got a bit confused with all the drugs, started laughing and telling me that Steve had a big appetite, that I’d better cook extra spaghetti sauce. When he started to drift off again, I patted his hand, told him I’d look after the shop, and left.

Going back to the shop was odd. I hadn’t realised how much it had become my sanctuary, how much I’d enjoyed being there and talking to James, until it was different, until I was on my own and I thought it might never be the same again. I felt as if I should be there though, there was only me to look after Steve for now, and the shop meant the world to James. I didn’t want to open up the shop and start serving though, I could never match James’ style and it didn’t feel appropriate, so I wrote a sign for the door that said ‘closed until further notice’, then kept the lower blinds closed so no one could see me inside. Once that was done, I stood, still, just for a moment, in the middle of the shop floor, and looked around. 

Sun was shining in from the top windows, which I’d left uncovered, and dust was stirring in the patches of sunlight, but the shop was obviously loved. The wooden shelves gleamed, although the books on them were often creased. The armchairs were plump, if faded and torn. This was a place that deserved to be cared for, and I intended to keep it that way, for if James was ever able to come back.

With nothing to fill my time, I wasn’t quite sure where to start, so I headed out into the back office again and took stock. Yesterday evening, I had been focussed on finding James’ relatives, now I could look around while I waited for my phone to ring. There was a small kitchen area, neatly laid out with mugs and kettle, coffee and tea, everything in its place. Everything was labelled neatly: tea, coffee, sugar, biscuits, cat food – a precise row of tins - and I smiled at the sight. I put the kettle on and while it boiled, looked around. Part of me felt guilty at snooping, but I was nosey, what can I say.

I started with the pictures on the walls. There was a line of photos, and I recognised Dot, and Steve, and Jimmy in some of them. They were a handsome family, and I could see how closely Jimmy resembled James. He was Dot and James’ only son, and it must have broken their hearts to lose him to war, when James himself had survived the second world war as well. I wondered if they’d kept up contact with Jimmy’s wife, and baby Jamie. The picture of Jamie on the wall was aged about 3. He was grinning up behind a birthday cake, curly brown hair sticking up under a party hat. He looked like the pictures of Jimmy as a child and that must have added to their pain, seeing their own lost boy in their grandson. He was a cute kid, and I had to remind myself that he was probably a little older than me now.

The pictures of Steve were all war photos, there were shots in uniform and in civvies but nothing from later than about ’45, I’d have said. I felt a sick feeling in my stomach, realising that perhaps there were no more photos because he was also lost in the war. James was such a bright soul, but he must have lost friends and family in the war, he’d lost his own son and his wife was gone now too. It made me more determined to be there for him, and to find his family too. I just hoped that Jamie would be the kind of person who would want to spend time with his 90 year old granddad, that the birthday cake smile would still shine out.

I sat down in the desk chair and let myself slowly turn back and forth in it. The kettle finished boiling so I made myself tea, and sat back down. Steve came and curled between my legs, rubbing herself back and forth, then leaping onto my lap, turning around and kneading my legs with her paws before settling down. I rubbed her head and spoke, half to myself, half to her.

“Guess we know who you’re named after, hey kitty. Reckon if the big Steve tried sitting on someone, he’d break their legs.” She meowed back at me and I stared at the photo of James and Steve, realising that James was almost as tall and broad as Steve in the war. Years had shrunk him, but he’d obviously once been all muscle himself. “Dot was a lucky woman,” I said to Steve and smiled as she purred.

I let myself drift off, sitting in the warm sun and holding the mug of tea, daydreaming about men in uniform. Some would say it was odd to be thinking that way about your 90 year old friend and bookshop owner, but what can I say, he was damn good looking in his time!

I whiled away the rest of the day wandering the shop, drinking tea, petting Steve, and idly reading. I couldn’t settle to anything though, wondering about the operation and waiting for the phone to ring. I picked up and put down books, reading a page or two here and there, but I couldn’t pay attention. Eventually about 4 o’clock, I rang the hospital and got through to the ward. All had gone well, and James was in recovery, with a new hip. They told me not to visit that night because he’d be pretty out of it and elderly people mostly slept after an operation of that length, but that I was welcome to visit the next day. I hadn’t realised how concerned I’d been, with James’ age, that he might not make it, so I felt a huge sense of relief. Sure, there was a lot of recuperation and rehab, and he was still pretty frail, but this was a good start.

I thought I’d better try Jamie again, so I fished out his number and redialled. Still no answer. I left another message. ‘Hi, I’m ringing for Jamie Barnes again, about your grandad. James had a hip replacement today, it all went well. Can you… can you ring? If you get this? You’re the only family contact I have for him.’ I left my number again, hoping I’d hear something soon. For all I knew, this wasn’t Jamie’s number any more, or he was out of the country or, who knows what else. I’d done all I could by then, so I fed Steve, locked up and left.

My flat was empty and dreary since I’d broken up with my boyfriend. He’d never officially lived there but somehow he’d been there often enough that he’d had a shelf in the bathroom, a drawer in the bedroom, some of his food and books and just, his stuff, around. Now it was all gone and the space felt dull and lonely. It was just somewhere to exist, not to live, so I wasn’t eager to be back there. I tried watching a film, but got nowhere, so I decided to get out my paints and make a get well card for James. It had been ages since I’d done anything artistic and I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed it. By the time I’d finished, I’d already decided to take my paints to the bookshop the next day. I knew, really, that I didn’t need to spend every day in the bookshop, but it was better than being at home, so I told myself I needed to keep Steve company and watch out for Jamie. Really, it was an excuse to avoid thinking about the future. No job, no boyfriend, nothing. I’d moved to this town for love and wasn’t sure what was keeping me here.

I left the card to dry while I made some food, digging some spaghetti sauce out of the freezer while I remembered James talking about Steve. I went to bed early, and my dreams were full of soldiers and cats, and everyone was called James.

The next morning, I dropped in to the shop and left a parcel of paints and canvases, fed Steve, and then, promising her I’d be back, set off for the hospital. James was in bed again, tubes going in and coming out of him. He looked fed up but bless him, he brightened when he saw me. I’d love to take the credit, but I think any familiar face would have been welcome. I gave him the card and a kiss on the cheek, and his eyes twinkled. We chatted for a while, I told him I was looking after Steve and keeping an eye on the shop – I didn’t like to admit that I was using it as a second home – but I think he knew how much it meant to me, because he told me he liked to know there was someone there. He lived on the top floor of the building, goodness knows what he’d do when he came out of hospital with a new hip, and all those stairs, but it meant that there was always someone in the building, and he told me he’d be very grateful if I could be there, as much as possible. ‘For Steve’, he told me, and winked again.

I didn’t know if he’d remember me telling him about Jamie, so I told him again. that I’d rung, left two messages now, but not had a reply yet. He smiled, thanking me for trying, then let out a little sigh.

“Little Jamie, he’s got my heart, that one. His Dad died when he was only young. He lost his Dad, I lost my son, it tore us to pieces. He was too small to understand, kept asking where Daddy was, broke our Dot’s heart to have to try and explain he wouldn’t be coming home. Jimmy had doted on little Jamie, he was the apple of his eye, and the pair of them would get up to no end of mischief. When Jimmy died, oh god…” He paused, drew in a breath. Not matter how long ago it had been, no man wants to bury his only child. I reached over, squeezed his fingers, and he gave me a trembling smile. 

“Jimmy’s wife, she went to pieces. She was a strange one, Natasha. Never gave much away about her background, but we got the feeling that she had some pain in her past. Jimmy dying, it was too much, she had a breakdown. So poor Jamie lost them both really. She never managed to look after him for long after that. He came and lived with us, with me and Dot. We were, what, in our 60s then, but sometimes I’d look down at Jamie and it was like having Jimmy back. We gave that boy our heart, but no-one can lose both parents and grow up happy, I suppose. Little Jamie…”

His eyes were seeing off into the distance now, obviously remembering the past. He drew in a ragged breath, gave himself a little shake.

“Ah, I’m an old fool. Jamie’ll ring, I’m sure. He’s out of the country a lot, doing whatever it is he does. Something far away from his granddad’s dusty old shop, something shiny and new, our Jamie. Of course, doesn’t even call himself that now. Too many Jameses in the family, he said. Bucky, he calls himself now, after his middle name. Bucky Barnes”.


	4. Chapter 4

I left the hospital not long after that, promising to come back in the evening. James asked me to fetch him some clothes and toiletries from his flat above the shop, blushing as he asked. I didn’t mind at all, but I knew he’d be happier if he could be asking a relative to do things for him. I’d have to try Jamie – no, Bucky – again but his lack of response was starting to worry me.

I stopped to pick up some cat food, some more coffee and some lunch, and headed back to the shop. James had made it clear he liked the fact I was making myself at home there, and it was doing me the world of good to get out from my own empty flat. I let myself in, settled down with my paints and coffee, and got lost in my own world for a few hours.

I was disturbed from my peace by a knocking at the door. I was going to ignore it, then suddenly thought it might be Bucky, and scrambled to unlock it. It wasn’t Bucky, but a woman, standing waiting, coat held tight against the wind. I’d seen her once or twice in the shop, and she obviously recognised me, though surprised to see me there.

Turns out, she’d ordered a book, one that the main bookshop hadn’t been able to find, but James had. It was a birthday present for her father, and she’d wanted to see if it had arrived. I told her about James, and his accident, and I could see she was torn between sympathy and desperation. I took pity on her, and invited her in. While she stroked Steve, and looked over my painting, I headed behind the counter, having seen James pull out orders from there before. Her luck was in, and I found the book. The relief on her face was a picture to see, and she pulled out her purse to pay for it. I had no idea how the till worked, or in fact anything about the shop, but the price was written on the order form, so she handed it over, and as I found her a bag, she told me she hoped the shop wouldn’t close, and how much she liked it. As she left, she called her thanks over her shoulder, sending James her love.

It was nice to know how many people valued James, both for his shop and his personality, and I promised myself to pass on the messages, knowing how much it would please James. Now though, I had the problem of knowing what to do with the money she’d given me. I wandered into the back, and picked up the (sadly empty) biscuit tin, tucking the money inside. Digging through the organised desk drawers, I found a notebook, and decided to use it to make a note of what had been bought.

By the time I headed back into the shop just a moment or two later, I realised I’d forgotten to lock the door again. Two people had wandered one, one now browsing the shelves while the other peered at my half-finished painting while rubbing Steve’s ears. I hurried over, intending to tell them we were closed, when the browser suddenly grabbed a book off the shelf, saying ‘I can’t believe they’ve got it!’ and walked over to pay. Somehow I ended up keeping the shop open for the next few hours, someone new wandering in every time I was about to shut the door. The biscuit tin gained some extra money and I carefully wrote every sale down in the notebook. There was something pretty special about the way the shop felt – and the way it made people feel. The sunlight shone in, Steve slept in the window and relished the head rubs that people couldn’t resist giving her, and somehow everyone found the book they’d come for, or the one they never knew they wanted.

With a steady stream of shoppers, I hadn’t had a chance to call Bucky, or to do anything more than grab a bite of a sandwich, so when the shop fell quiet at 4, I took the opportunity to lock the door again. I wanted to visit James, and I needed to find the things he wanted from upstairs. I hid the biscuit tin at the back of a cupboard in the office, hoping it would be safe there, and went upstairs.

I’d never been up to the flat before, and this really did feel like trespassing. It was bright and tidy, but lacked the soul of the shop downstairs. I knew that James had moved here after Dot had died, so he’d only ever lived here alone, and somehow it showed. Downstairs, James thrived in company, but up here, his losses must have caught up with him.

The walls were covered in photos again, James having surrounded himself with all the people he missed. I tried not to stare but caught glimpses of Steve, Dot, his regiment. There were pictures of James himself, Jimmy, and Jamie/Bucky, at various ages, and it was hard to tell them apart, so similar did they all look. I kept my head down, and found the bedroom, gathering the things James had asked for and rushing out again.

On reaching the hospital, the nurse asked again about James’ family and I told her I was trying, but I felt like a poor substitute – right up until James saw me, and grinned and waved. He had a bit of colour in his cheeks and by the time I’d told him about opening the shop, and the biscuit tin bank, he was grinning, and patting my hand in delight and gratitude. Somehow, I found myself promising to keep the shop open for him, but inside I knew that what I wanted, was to keep that magic alive for him to come home to, and for the way it made me feel.

The next few days carried on like this. I visited James every day, and every day I opened the shop for a few hours. As word spread about James’ accident, people brought cards to drop off for him, everyone with a story about what he meant to them. Being the centre of this world meant so much to everyone, and it highlighted what I was missing. Each night, when I went home, my own flat and my own life felt emptier and quieter, and I wondered who would have noticed if I’d gone in to hospital. I needed to make a change in my life, but I didn’t know how.

Every night I tried ringing Bucky again, but had no reply. I’d started ringing the other numbers in the address book too, but although everyone passed on their best wishes, I hadn’t found any other family. James was a man out of time, most of his friends and relatives long since gone.

A week after James’ operation, things changed. Have you ever had an odd sense of déjà vu? That’s what I had when the shop door opened that day. I looked up when the bell jangled and my heart leapt into my mouth. It was as if the wartime photo of James was walking through the door. OK, he wasn’t in uniform, and his hair was probably floppier than you’d have got away with in the army, but it was the same man, it was James in his youth. There was only one person this could be, Jamie. Or Bucky, as he now was. He was wearing a suit that looked expensive, and unlike James’ open smile, he was frowning when he saw me.

I hurried around from behind the counter as he walked in, his eyes skimming the shop, drinking it all in. I got to him at the same time as Steve, who’d jumped down from the windowsill and prowled over, yowling. Bucky looked down at where Steve was rubbing around his legs, and then shoved him aside with a foot – gently, but uninterested – before looking back up at me. I had a sinking feeling, that although Bucky may have looked identical to his granddad, they couldn’t be more different.

“Bucky? I mean, Jamie, James, Barnes?” I stumbled over my words, feeling flushed and awkward under his still gaze. “I mean, James’ grandson, is that… I mean, you must be…” I ground to a halt, murmuring my own name as an introduction. He nodded, his gaze beyond me, looking at the stairs to the flat, then his eyes met mine. He gave a small, half smile.

“I got your message. I’ve been out of the country, I only landed this morning. Is he here?”

I frowned. “No, he’s still in the hospital. They only operated last week. He’ll have to go into a nursing home, for rehabilitation, before he can come back here.”

His gaze had been wandering again, but as I finished speaking, he looked back at me. His stare was direct and not particularly friendly, and I felt myself wilting. I felt shabby in comparison to his sharp suit, aware of cat hair and paint on my clothes, my lack of make up, the way I’d let myself go over the last few months. With every second he stared at me, I felt judged.

“Why is the shop open, if he isn’t here?”

“I’ve… been helping out. Just, people wanted to buy things, and I opened the shop.” I felt defensive, as if I’d been caught with my hand in the till. Or the biscuit tin anyway. I could tell I was gabbling. “I’ve been keeping records, so James can see what I’ve sold. He knows I’m doing it.”

Suddenly, I felt my face heat with anger. I’d been the one who was here for James, all week. I’d visited him twice a day, taken clean clothes, books, biscuits. I’d fed his cat, watered his plants, run his shop, and where had Bucky, Mr Oh-So-Special James Barnes III, been all this time? I’ve always been someone who cried when I was angry, a useless, hated trait, and I could feel my eyes starting to well up, blinking rapidly to try and stop the tears spilling over.

“I’ve been here for your Grandad, because I couldn’t get hold of anyone else. He’s all alone in hospital, in pain, and I’ve been trying to make his life easier, I’ve been visiting and looking after him, and the shop, and Steve, because I’m his friend.” I wasn’t shouting, but my voice was raised and I knew I must have looked a fool. It seemed to work though. At the name ‘Steve’, Bucky’s eyes widened slightly, and a smile crept across his face. His shoulders relaxed from their tense pose, just a little, and he drew in a breath.

“He’s still calling all his stupid cats Steve? He looked down, to where Steve was sitting and washing her leg in a patch of sun. He nudged her in a more friendly way with one foot and she looked up in disdain before carrying on washing. “Every damn cat,” he said, more to himself than to me. “Is this one at least a boy?” 

I shook my head, and then felt myself smile as he shook his head in amusement, and bent down to rub Steve’s head, with a small smile of his own.

The smile didn’t last though. By the time he’d stood back up, he was holding himself rigid again, as if afraid of something. He asked about James, and the operation, and visiting hours, and I gave him all the information I could. He listened quietly, unsmiling, and then looked at his watch. There were a few people in the shop now, and one woman was waiting at the counter to pay. He glanced at her, and at me, as if weighing up whether to trust me, then nodded his head. 

“I’ll go and see him. If I come back here after, about 6, would you mind waiting? I can take over from there.”

I agreed, and turned to help out at the counter, my heart hurting at the thought that Bucky was going to take over here. He’d probably just shut up the shop and put James into a care home, and this magical place would gather dust and be sold. I plastered on a smile, more to make myself feel better than for the customer, and then took her money, writing down the title and price in the notebook, handing out change, responding as she told me how long she’d been looking for this particular book, and how thrilled she was to find it. It was only as I handed over her bag that I realised James had been watching everything I did. Without acknowledging me, he turned and left.


	5. Chapter 5

The shop emptied out not long after Bucky had left, as if it was giving up already. I locked the door, and tidied up slowly, finding myself patting some of the books as if in apology at what they might be facing next. I fed Steve, and gave her an extra pet too, as much for my own comfort as mine. If I wasn’t going to be coming back here, I was going to have to face up to the mess of my own life. I’d been putting it off under the guise of helping James, but an empty flat, no job and no friends was all waiting for me to deal with.

I put the biscuit tin and notebook out on the desk, so I could show Bucky that I was being honest, then packed up my painting things, putting everything in a bag by the door. I couldn’t settle to reading anything, being too distracted to concentrate so eventually I sat myself down in one of the chairs in the shop with a sketchbook and pencil, and started to sketch. I drew Steve, sitting on a pile of books, thinking it might be nice for James to have in hospital – or wherever it was he ended up, if he couldn’t come home. I sniffed a few times and had to wipe my eyes, then cursed myself for being soft.

Just after six, I heard a knock at the door, and on unlocking it, found Bucky outside. He was carrying a suitcase, and a bottle of wine, and his face looked softer than it had done earlier. He had bags under his eyes, and I wondered how far he’d flown today before getting to the hospital.

I let him in, locked the door behind us, then stood awkwardly, holding the keys. He walked to the counter, putting his suitcase and the wine down, then turned back to me. We both started to talk at the same time, smiled a little, then he gestured for me to continue.

“I’ve left the money, and the records, out on James’ desk, so you can see what he’s sold this week. I don’t know what he does about a safe, or banking, but, well, you’re here now. All the money’s there. Well, no, I used some to buy cat food, I’ve put the receipt in the tin, I just… I didn’t have enough money myself.” I blushed at that, he didn’t look like the kind of man who had ever struggled to pay for things. “It’s all there though. And there’s cat food in the tin, and there’s clean pyjamas for James in a bag on the chair, and here’s the keys…” I was talking too fast, feeling frumpy and stupid again. We’d barely spoken but he’d turned me against him somehow. He was leaning back against the counter, legs crossed at the ankle, holding onto the edge. He looked sharp and smooth and it annoyed me how much he affected me. 

I held out the keys and he straightened and took them, bouncing them in his hand once or twice as if weighing them against a memory, then looked back at me.

“I didn’t thank you properly this afternoon. I’m sorry. Thank you. For all you’ve done for him.”

That threw me. I hadn’t expected such a gentle tone after my first impression of him. He gave me a wry smile and continued.

“Actually, James told me to say that. I mean, it’s true, but Granddad took one look at me and said ‘I bet you never even thought to say thank you, and it looks like you’ve got a stick up your ass’.” 

At that, I couldn’t help laughing, it sounded so like James. Bucky had the grace to look sheepish before smiling himself and I almost found myself warming to him, his smile looking so like his granddad’s. 

I was just about to take my leave when his phone rang. He looked at me apologetically before reaching into a pocket and taking it out to answer. I turned, awkwardly feeling like an eavesdropper, and crouched to talk to Steve, trying not to hear the end of the conversation.

“Hey. Yeah, few hours ago. Fine. I’ve been at the hospital, I couldn’t… No. I’m not coming back yet… Because he’s just had an operation!” He sounded hard again, exasperated, perhaps even angry. I pretended to busy myself straightening some books, wondering if I should just leave. Bucky had his back turned to me now, the hand that wasn’t holding the phone jammed into his trouser pocket, his back rigid.

“I’ll stay until I know he’s OK… No, I don’t know… Look, I have to go. Yeah. Love you.”

That surprised me. There’d been nothing in the phone call that sounded like love, but I guess I was no expert, given my current life. 

Bucky paused for a moment before turning around, and the smile had been wiped from his face. He looked at me, but didn’t make eye contact. I gave Steve one last pet, then stood and picked up my bag of painting things.

“My number, if you need anything, I’ve left it on the desk,” I said, although doubting I’d hear from him again. He nodded and I turned to leave then paused. “I’ll still visit James, in the hospital, if that’s OK.”

His eyes caught mine now and he nodded. “He’d like that. Thank you.” He paused, and I wondered if he was going to say anything else, his face having softened, but he walked towards the door as if to show me out, and as I left, I heard the door lock behind me. As I walked along the street, past the windows, I couldn’t help but look in. Bucky was standing in the middle of the floor, unmoving.

By the time I got home, I’d worked myself into a state. A mixture of sadness at leaving the shop, which I’d come to love after that week; annoyance at Bucky’s manner; worry for James; and a miserable realisation of my own life, left me stomping along, wiping my nose furiously on the back of my hand and determinedly not crying. I slammed the door of my flat shut behind me and then stood, listening to the silence. Nobody but me had been in here for weeks now. No company, not even a cat or a house plant to talk to. I dropped my bag on the floor, kicking it out of the way, part of me hoping something would break so I could feel more angry, then I slumped down on the sofa, head flung back, and gave in to my tears.

Once I’d cried myself out, I had to admit that I felt no better. I stood up and peered at myself in the mirror, seeing myself as I was sure Bucky had seen me. I had biscuit crumbs down my front, and I hadn’t brushed my hair that morning. My hands were stained purple with paint, and I had a spot on my nose. I scowled at myself, noticing how much weight I’d gained with comfort eating since I lost my job and my boyfriend. I muttered ‘disaster’ at myself, becoming even more annoyed at my self-pity.

I was too cross with the world to sleep, so I decided to finish my sketch for James, drawing always relaxing me. There wasn’t much left to do, just a bit of shading, but it would give me a chance to wind down. I grabbed up the bag from by the door and started unpacking my paints and brushes. By the time I got to the bottom of the bag, I had to acknowledge the sketchbook wasn’t there. I thought back, remembering how I’d been sitting sketching, then stood to let Bucky in… I hadn’t ever picked the book back up again, it was still at the shop. A fitting end to the day I was having.

I decided to just give up, and went to bed, not even bothering to clean my teeth, sulkily, but I couldn’t sleep. My mind was whirring, imagining Bucky, all be-suited, condemning James to a home, selling up the shop, having Steve put to sleep. By the time sleep finally outweighed my thoughts, I could already hear the dawn chorus outside my window.

Because I’d taken so long to go to sleep, I slept late, not waking up until mid-morning. I sat up, then realised I had nothing to get out of bed for, and lay back, wallowing. I’d missed the morning visiting hours, had no job to go to, the shop wasn’t mine any more. I sulked a little more, then got up and made myself breakfast, taking it back to bed and watching bland morning TV.

I finally got up around 2, purely at the thought of visiting hours at the hospital. I ran myself a bath, scrubbed myself furiously and cleaned my teeth twice, then got dressed in clean clothes, ignoring the way I had to breath in to do up the button on my jeans, and set out to the hospital. 

When I reached the ward, the nurse stopped me, thanking me for finding James’ family. She told me he’d been thrilled to have his grandson there the evening before, and he’d stopped by this morning as well. James was making good progress, and would be ready to be discharged to somewhere that could provide rehabilitation soon, but she was sure his grandson was looking into it. I nodded politely, eager to see James.

He was sitting up in bed when I got there, reading, but quickly put his book aside when he noticed me, patting me on the hand when I kissed his cheek. He was full of excitement at having seen Bucky, kept thanking me for finding him and talking about how Bucky would take care of the shop, Bucky would look after him now. I could only nod and smile, assuming he’d seen a very different side to his grandson than I’d seen. James obviously noticed my lack of enthusiasm because he slowed, eyeing me.

“I get the feeling you didn’t take to my grandson so much?”

I felt bad, this was the boy he’d brought up as his own, his only living relative, and here I was sneering doubtfully at whether he’d be any good.

“I think he was probably just tired, worried about you, y’know. I am glad he’s here for you, he can get everything sorted.” I put on a big smile, but James wasn’t convinced. His face fell as he rested his head back against the pillow.

“I’m kidding myself, sweets. He’s not the boy he used to be. Went through too much trauma, too young, he puts up a shield around himself now. And then that girl he’s fallen in with, she’s no help. He needed someone to remind him what it’s like to be soft, instead, he’s engaged to that one, all money and hard edges. And…” He looked at me, eyes glinting dramatically. “And. _She’s allergic to cats_!”

I burst out laughing at that, glad to see him smiling again. I could see the nurses ready to get visitors out, so it was time for me to leave. I leant over to pull the blanket up, and give James a peck on the cheek, but he held on to my hand for a second, nodding his head towards the cupboard beside his bed. I turned and looked, wondering what he was showing me, and saw my drawing. The one of Steve on the books. I looked back at James, surprised.

“Dropped it off this morning. Said you’d left your book there, thought you’d meant it for me. You’re thoughtful, thank you. My Jamie said you have a real talent. Couldn’t stop talking about it actually.” He gave me another mischievous smile and let my hand go as the nurse came to hustle me out.

“See you tomorrow,” I called as I left, smiling at the men in the other beds. For some reason, my heart felt a lot lighter leaving the ward than it had on the way in. I refused to think about why.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've really struggled with this chapter. It's disjointed and I'm not happy with it but getting nowhere editing. I'm sorry. The next chapter should be better (Bucky's fiancee should appear) but i'm sorry this one is so bad.

I definitely felt different as I walked out of the hospital. I always tried to be a positive person, although the last few months had really got me down, but I liked to see the good in people. Knowing that Bucky had seen my picture, and cared enough to think James would like it, that made me feel warm inside. Sure, Bucky was a bit of an ass, but he made his granddad smile, and that did endear me to him. 

Yeah, I’ll admit there was a bit of vanity in there too. Hearing ‘you have talent’ was nice. And yes, OK, you win. Bucky was pretty good looking, fine, yes. So knowing he’d mentioned me was a bit of a boost. I’d been dumped! It was nice to be on someone’s radar, even if a little voice in my head was whispering ‘he probably said ‘that crazy cat hair woman who hangs around drew this’…’ Whatever it was, I felt more positive than I had done for a while. I’d wallowed for a while, and while knew the positivity wouldn’t last, I had to make hay while the sun shines and all that. Not that it was, shining that is. Rain again. But that was OK. I splashed back from the hospital to my flat, and decided to take stock. 

So, I lost my job. I’m single. I’m overweight and lazy. I don’t brush my hair very often and I last bought new clothes… long enough ago I can’t remember. And the ones I have don’t fit.

OK, but. Let’s look at the buts. I’m not that old – and James is still living life at 90. I’ve lost my job, so I need to get a new one. Skills… book selling? Maybe. Too soon. Art? Cat feeding? OK, that needs thought. Single. Well, let’s work on that one later. Overweight and lazy. OK… Hair brushing. Can do!

I set a bath running and tidied up a bit while I waited. After the bath, I combed my hair and dug out some slightly less shabby clothes. Time to go and register with a temping agency, buy some food that wasn’t doughnut- or chocolate bar-shaped. I wander into town, the sun out now and drying up the puddles. It was coincidence, I swear it, that the agency was near Barnes’ Books. I’d signed up, hoping I’d get a bit of work coming my way, and on the way back, decided to drop in and pick up my sketchbook. That’s all. I didn’t want to nose around, promise.

When I called in, the shop was quiet. There was one person browsing but it seemed less… sparkly… than when I’d been there before. The coffee wasn’t on so there was no enticing smell, and everywhere seemed a little dusty. It had only been a day, so I had to be kidding myself, I was sure. 

When the bell rang on the door, Bucky came out from the back office. He was still in a suit although at least the tie was undone, but somehow he looked too severe for this kind of shop. I heard the door jangle behind me as the only other customer left.

Bucky looked tired. He hadn’t shaved and he had big bags under his eyes. I got the feeling he wasn’t happy. He looked worn down and fed up. I’m a sucker for sadness, I hate to see it in other people so I have to resist the urge to sit him down, make him tea, ask how he is. We don’t know each other and I get the feeling he’s not that kind of a person.

“I just came by to collect my sketchbook, I think I left it here.” I decide not to say anything about the sketch, I don’t want him to think I’m fishing for compliments.

He reaches under the counter, brings out my book and pencils and holds them out as I cross the floor to get them.

“I hope you don’t mind, I looked through. I saw the one of Steve and the books, it was great, so I kept looking.” OK, so I hadn’t been fishing but that didn’t mean I didn’t like compliments. I just wish I didn’t go all hot and flustered when I got them. “I gave Granddad the one of Steve. I hoped you wouldn’t mind, I know how much he’s missing this place, and Steve. And you. He’s kept on talking about you.” 

He looks a little put out at that, as if I’ve usurped his place in James’ affections. Possibly because he knows I’ve been here more than he has the last few years. Still, like I said, I’m a sucker for sadness, always want to fix it.

“It’s no problem, I’d done it for him, so thank you. I saw him last night, and he was telling me how happy he is to see you.” He gives me a small smile at that.

“How’s everything here, I mean, are you staying, for the shop?” We both look around the shop at that. Empty and still, it’s not the shop either of us remember, I’m pretty sure. His face drops again.

“Yeah, I promised Granddad I’d help out for a bit. Long term, I don’t know. I live in London, and I travel a lot. I don’t know how long he’ll take to heal, so…” He trails off, and I don’t know him well enough to decide if that sentence was going to finish ‘so I’ll move up here and work in the shop forever’ or ‘so I’m selling it next week.’ Still, not my business, I tell myself.

“Well, if you need anything, you have my number” I say, and he nods. I put the sketchbook in my bag, say goodbye and leave.

The next few days, I fall into a routine. I visit James, I try and do some productive things with my life – some art, some exercise, some job hunting. James is recovering well and talks about how Bucky visits him every day, but I don’t like to broach the subject of the shop’s future, and find out Bucky’s plans. Then a few days later, James isn’t smiling as much as usual when I get there. I’ve barely sat down before he’s asking me questions.

“How’s the shop, how’s my Jamie doing in there, keeping things ticking over for me OK?”

I wonder where this is coming from, what’s sparked it off, but I can only be honest.

“I haven’t been in, for a week now. Bucky’s running things, he doesn’t need my help. I‘m sure it’s all fine though, he’s a businessman, he knows about, well, business! I mean, don’t worry, I really enjoyed helping out, but Bucky’s got it now.”

James frowns, looking anxious and cross. He mutters under his breath. “No no, that’s not how this is supposed to go!” I hold onto his hand, worried that he’s getting agitated, but he looks at me clear-eyed. “Jamie… Bucky… needs you. Oh, he might not know it, but he does.”

He rests his head back against the chair and sighs a little. “He was here this morning. My beautiful bright eyed boy, oh he used to light up the room. Now he just looks lost. He… no, I’m not going to share his secrets, but keep an eye on him will you doll? I trust you.”

James looks so concerned, of course I say yes, what else could I do. But I fear I’ll get a less-than-warm welcome from Bucky if I turn up and try and get involved. Nonetheless, before I leave the hospital, James makes me promise I’ll go into the shop and see how things are.

I don’t do it that day, I want to steel myself first, but the next morning, I head over to the shop. I stand outside for a minute and look in before I open the door. Bucky is standing behind the counter, stroking Steve. He’s lost the tie now and his shirt is undone at the top, and he looks looser and more relaxed, but then I notice something else. His head is down while he strokes the cat, but every now and then his hand comes up and wipes his face. I can’t really tell from here, but I think he’s crying.

I don’t know what to do. I don’t know this man, and our only connection is his grandfather, my friend. And this shop. But I’ve promised James I’ll help out. 

I don’t want Bucky to know I’ve seen him crying, so I go over the road to the bakery, buy some cakes, and wait a bit. When I get back to the shop, I carry the cake box in front of me, so I have to push open the door with my back. I make a meal out of it, so the bell jangles but I pretend to be all tangled up, keeping my head down as if to make sure the box doesn’t tip, so Bucky has time to put on his game face. By the time I look up, he’s standing straight and the red around his eyes is barely noticeable.

I smile and walk in, putting the box down on the counter and rubbing Steve’s ears affectionately, then go blank as I realise I haven’t thought up a reason as to why I’ve walked in with a box of cakes, or how I can check up on Bucky without it looking as if I am. Bucky’s eyes look puzzled and the pause is just lengthening a little too much when I’m saved by the bell, literally. The bell jangles and we both look up.

There’s a woman coming in, about my age, with a small child and a pushchair, so I rush back over and help her with the door. She gives me a smile and obviously assumes I work here.

“Hi, I wonder if you can help. I know it’s ridiculous but I’m looking for a book I read as a child, well, it was my Mum’s book so god knows when it’s from…” She pauses a minute, apologises as she tries to round up her daughter who’s unloading the nearest bookshelf. Bucky is standing, watching, silently.

“No problem, describe the book and I’ll see what I can do. Let’s just get this one something more interesting…” I point into one corner of the shop where James has piled up a load of children’s books near some cushions, and the girl plops herself down and starts turning the pages of a picture book. 

“OK, oh god, I can barely remember, but it was so special to me, I really want to find it! All I can remember is it began with P, or I think it did, and it had these grey animals with weird ears, and… I have no chance, do I?!”

Remember how I said James had this magical ability to find books? Well some of that has transferred on to me. Either that, or I’ve just spent way too long in here and got to know the stock too well. I can feel my eyes widen because I know this is ridiculous but I’m sure I have the one she needs.

“Hang on! Help yourself to a cake!” I gesture at the counter, then realise Bucky is still standing there, watching me. This is his shop to run, not mine. I pause for a second but then he smiles at me, and it’s a real genuine smile for a change, and opens the box of cakes for the woman.

Over in the children’s corner, I start running my finger along shelves. I’ve got this feeling, like a tip-of-the-tongue sensation, but for books. I start getting frustrated because I can’t find anything, and I wish James was here, but then, there it is. I catch the corner of the book from under a pile of other picture books and pull it out. The little girl is lost in a book on her cushion, and when I come out from behind the shelves, her Mum is standing talking to Bucky, eating a cake and rocking the pushchair back and forth while her baby sleeps. Bucky sees me first and looks up at me questioningly. I hold the book up as the woman turns.

“Parlicoot?” I say and she shrieks.

“Oh my god, yes! That’s it, oh wow?!” she’s holding the book now, turning the pages over and stroking each illustration, eyes shining. “That’s amazing, the chance that you’d have it, god, I haven’t seen this in years!”

It’s a rush, what can I say. I feel like I’ve made her day, even though I know it was just pure chance, but I’m grinning back at her like a fool. She pulls out her purse and tries to give me some money, but I point at Bucky, who takes it from her. I notice he’s still using the old biscuit tin and notebook method and it makes me smile. She takes the book over to her daughter and I see her sit down and share her cake, and start reading.

When I turn back, Bucky is watching me, head tilted to one side, as if weighing me up. I start to apologise for taking over like that but he smiles at me.

“You’ve got my Grandad’s touch.” 

His smile is open and bright, and I’m struck by how much he looks like James. And yes, by how good looking he is when he’s not scowling. But there’s a tinge of sadness; he couldn’t have found that book. It hurts me to see that sadness, there’s something about the story James told me, about how Bucky’s lost so much, that just wants to take that hurt away.

“I’ve just spent too long in here probably, I know the shelves too well. The danger of being unemployed.”

There’s a pause then, although I get the feeling he almost wants to say something but the moment passes.

“Better go, things to do!” I say, which is a complete lie. I start to leave but he calls after me, gesturing to the cakes.

“Right, yes!” I’m about to pick them up and wonder what on earth to do with them, when the doorbell rings again and someone comes in. The girl and her mum are still sharing a cake in the corner, the mum looking up and smiling at me as I stand by the door. “Keep them. For your customers.” He looks surprised, as if he hadn’t thought of something like that, and nods. “James used to put coffee on.” I point to the coffee pot, then flush, worried that I’ve overstepped the line, and rush out of the shop.

The next day, I get a text. It’s from a number I don’t know. I open it up to see ‘Sorry to bother you. I can’t make the coffee machine work. Granddad laughed and told me to ask you. Any ideas? Bucky’. Any suggestions that I got a little smile on my face, are lies, just lies. I text back, and promise to be there that morning. I’m not sure why James couldn’t just tell him the trick to it, but perhaps he thought a demonstration would be easier.

The shop has a couple of people in it when I arrive, and I see a new box of cakes on the counter, and smile. Bucky has his jacket off now, and sleeves rolled up. He looks a little more relaxed but there’s still frown lines and his smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I’ve seen James cursing this machine but there’s a knack to the bits you have to wiggle.” I’m turning it on as I speak, and James is standing close by, watching. I’m suddenly very conscious of just how near he is. I haven’t been this close to anyone in a while and I won’t deny that the smell of his skin is intoxicating. If I moved an inch, we’d be touching. It’s disconcerting and I’m suddenly aware of what I must look like, bent over with my bum in the air. I straighten up as the machine’s light comes on and it starts making noises. Bucky smiles, and this time it reaches his eyes.

“It obviously recognises you. Thank you. Granddad was right about you, you fit…”

I’m not sure what he’s going to say because we’re interrupted by my phone ringing. I’m all flustered, pulling it out, and watching his face retreat back into shadows, cursing myself.

It’s the temp agency, offering me a week’s work. I’m not sure why I feel so bereft.


	7. Chapter 7

For the next week, I rejoin the real world. I get up, put on work clothes, sit at a computer, answer phones, drink communal tea, eat a sandwich, type, go home. I talk to new people, go to a new place, earn some money. It’s good for me.

I hate it.

I know I sound like a brat, but I’ve loved being able to spend the day at the bookshop, before James’ accident. I loved the happiness books can bring, I loved talking to people, making coffee and washing up, helping unpack boxes, chatting to James. I’m trying to make the most of this week, it’s good CV-fodder, I do meet some nice people but it’s not me. And every day, while I’m inputting data, although I’m working hard, my mind is wandering. I’m thinking about the day I found the book for that woman, I’m thinking about curling up with Steve in an armchair. I’m thinking about making James laugh. I’m thinking about how sad Bucky looked.

I only get to see James for a little while each day, visiting hours being nearly over by the time I get away from work. He’s perky, but stuck in a wheelchair and bored. He’s being transferred soon, to a nursing home to help his walking. He tells me that Bucky has found him somewhere nice but I can see the panic in his eyes that he might end up there for good. Barring the white hair, and now the broken hip, you’d never know he was 90, he has the energy and enthusiasm of a younger man. He talks about Bucky every day, how Bucky’s managing the shop, how good it is to have Bucky here, about Bucky as a boy. There’s so much love in the way he talks, that I can’t help but see Bucky through his eyes, and wonder how the sad, angry man can be reconciled with the boy James talks about.

As well as not being able to go into the hospital, I’ve not been able to go into the shop all week. I’m pretty sure that’s a good thing, given how much it’s playing on my mind. It’s not _my_ shop, I need to remember that, and take a step back. Nonetheless, come Saturday, that’s where I go. I’m there early.

I’m a coward, not wanting to go in empty-handed, wanting to buy my way in, so I take in another box of cakes. I open the door and I love that jangle of the bell, the smell of the paper, the sight of Steve stretched out on the windowsill, looking up at me and then disregarding me. Just as it should be, I think, but then I take it all in. The shop is empty, and nobody appears at first when I go in, so I can see it, undistracted, just for a moment. It’s… different. I can’t quite put my finger on it. There’s no coffee smell, no noise, no people, no… life. It feels smaller somehow, as if it really is just a shabby old shop.

I’m wondering if I should just sneak away when the door to the stairs opens and Bucky appears. It’s only a week since I last saw him but he looks different. Looser. And suddenly the shop doesn’t feel so shabby any more. Bucky is dressed in jeans and a jumper, looking gentler somehow than the designer suits. His hair is tousled and he’s unshaven. He’s got a piece of toast in his mouth, which he pulls out as he shuts the door behind him.

“I overslept. Opened up then ran back up to grab some breakfast.” 

“I just wanted to… came to see how you – how the shop - was doing. I saw James, he said you’ve found him a rehab place?”

Talking about James seems safer than talking about the shop, or about the permanent frown lines that he still wears on his face, even when he’s smiling as he is now.

“James told me you’d been in. Thank you. It means a lot. Yeah, I’ve found him somewhere. He’ll hate it, tell me it’s all old men and no life, but he couldn’t come back to these stairs yet.”

“And the shop? While he’s away?”

I hate myself for asking but I care.

“I’m staying. For a bit.” He looks down, abashed. “I like it. It’s… living.”

There’s an awkward silence. Bucky has given me an insight into himself, perhaps by accident, and I can see the regret in his eyes. I remember what James said about his shield. I want him to feel comfortable, it’s my nature so I brush over it, putting the box of cakes down on the counter as I smile, and say “I thought you should celebrate your first week here.”

Bucky smiles, tension broken, and picks up a cake. “This isn’t the healthiest of breakfasts, but if it’s a celebration…” He bites into the cake, as he pushes the box towards me, but I remember my intention to being healthier and shake my head. 

I’m distracted by the way he licks the sugar off his lips, so I speak without thinking, gesturing at myself and say “I think I’ve had more than enough.”

Even as the words come out, I can feel myself cringing. I’m forever opening my mouth before I think. I make the mistake of looking up, and expect to see Bucky laughing at me, or agreeing with me, but he has his head tipped on one side, as if considering. He pushes the box towards me again. “But you’re fine.” Perhaps he can sense my awkwardness, because he moves away, turning towards the coffee machine. 

“I’d offer you coffee but I couldn’t get it working without you.” He looks up at me. “It misses you.”

I’m thrown by the way it feels when his eyes settle on me. There’s an odd tension in the air, one I’m not able to comprehend. I busy myself with the coffee machine, managing to get it going and soon the grinding noise and rich smell are rounding out the shop, filling its corners and bringing it to life.

As I pour two cups of coffee, I chide myself for getting too at home, but it’s nice to perch on a stool by the counter and watch James bustling around. His movements are loose, shoulders relaxed, and I’m sure he’s humming for a moment. Once the blinds are open, and lights on, he stops and leans against the counter. He’s holding his mug in both hands, long legs stretched out. The magic of the shop is having its effect on him, easing his sorrows. There’s still traces of sadness in his eyes though and something in me aches to see them gone.

I stroke Steve a little as we chat about inconsequential things, but she soon wanders off and winds herself around Bucky’s legs. Two weeks ago when he arrived, he shoved her away, in case she put cat hairs on his suit. Now I’m pleased to see him bend down and scoop up Steve one handed, draping her over his shoulder, rubbing his jaw up and down her back as she purrs in ecstasy. 

Bucky asks how my job is going but I’m ashamed to tell him about my pitiful role. Bucky, who jetsets across the world doing whatever it is he does, in his suits and fast cars. I’m still wearing my slightly-too-tight odd clothes, mismatched socks and wayward hair, but he seems interested, asking if I’m going back on Monday. It was a one week contract though, so I’m out of work again. I try to put a brave face on it, telling him I’m sure something else will come up.

Bucky’s phone rings and he answers it, and I hear him talking business with someone, obviously still working long distance. His tone is hard again and controlled. While he’s on the phone, someone comes in about an order, so I find it for them, taking the money. Behind them, someone else comes in to browse and we fall to chatting, before I offer some coffee and cake and suggest they try out the books they’ve found by sitting and reading for a bit. They smile, telling me they love the idea of ‘try before you buy’ with books, and sit down, exclaiming with delight when Steve sits on their lap.

A third person comes in to browse and I chat, pointing out where they can find the fantasy section, suggesting my favourite books, offering coffee, when I realise that the conversation behind me has stopped. I turn around. Bucky is standing watching me.

“You’ve definitely got Granddad’s touch,” he repeats, adding “and you get that glow he gets when you’re talking books with people.”

He flusters me. He looks as if he’s never felt awkward or unconfident but he brings out that side of me. I mumble something meaningless, flattered but embarrassed, and start to gather my things together. I look up to say goodbye, and realise that he’s now biting his lip, eyes narrowed, as if steeling himself to say something. 

“Hang on. Look this is going to sound crazy, but would you help out? I mean, unless you have more work? I’ll pay you, you just… you do a better job than me here. Maybe I’m just not right for this.” His gesture takes in everything, the books, the shop, the people, and his face drops again, as if he wants to be the person who’s right for all this. “You’re more like my Granddad than I am.”

He look so sad at this that I reach out without thinking, rest my hand on his. There’s a spark, just a static shock, when we touch. It startles us both and I pull back.

“I’d be happy to help. I’d love to. But you’re doing fine.” I mean what I say. He may not be selling books and working the coffee machine, but he, himself, he’s doing fine. Less stressed, more open. Fine.

So that’s how, come Monday, I’m back at the shop. I’ve been singing all weekend, I’m so pleased. I’m in my element and I can feel the life returning to me as I get away from the desks and computers. Bucky and I work alongside each other, and my happiness means my mouth won’t stop. I chat all the time - when I’m with customers, when we’re unpacking orders, when I’m making Bucky try and work the coffee machine. It takes three days but by Thursday he’s learnt the trick and as we laugh at his success, I forget myself and hug him. I feel him retract and I pull back, rejected, remembering who I am, who he is, what this is. I’m just helping out. We’re not friends, are we?

Despite these temporary setbacks, Bucky relaxes more every day. His face softens, his movements ease, the line between his brows gets shallower. In quiet moments in the shop, he talks – about his job, about James. I notice that he almost never speaks about his fiancée and I don’t ask.

I’ve just sold a book, and am writing it down in the notebook, neither of us having bothered to work out the till still, when he speaks. “You’re really good at this, selling books.”

“It’s not about selling books Bucky, it’s about people. That’s the bit that matters. Seeing someone go out with a smile.”

“But you’ve got to make money in a shop right.”

I shrug. “Sure, you need _some_ money. Enough to get by. But look at us. Who’s got the most money, and who’s the happiest?”

I mean it to be a gentle joke but somehow as I say the words, it becomes too true. He tilts his head, a gesture I recognise now as him being lost in thought, and he turns away, chewing his lip.

On Friday, I get to the shop and find Bucky standing reading something at the counter. When he first got here, he read nothing but his phone, staring at emails and texts and market reports. Now most nights when I leave, he’s sitting in a chair with Steve on his lap and a book in his hand. Today though, he’s turning over loose pages. When he hears the bell jangle, he looks up and his face is light and excited.

“Hey, James told me about this box, look what I’ve found!”

I go behind the counter so I can read the pages the right way up. We’re standing shoulder to shoulder and I can’t deny any more what I’ve been noticing all week, that my body reacts to his closeness. He’s much taller than me, has an air of strength, steel behind the soft jumpers and hoodies he’s wearing now. The hairs on my arm stand on end as if reaching out towards him, but I push the feelings down.

“Granddad remembered this box in his flat, of old drawings and stuff I did as a kid. I didn’t know he’d kept all this crap!”

“It’s not crap to him, he loves you.”

I know he knows it, I can see it in his eyes as he turns the pages. It means a lot that these pictures exist, that there is someone who loves him. The pages are full of children’s drawings and writing. Lots of cats – all called Steve, although not always the same cat; stick figures labelled Granddad and Grannie; books. There are even notes, written by Dot and James, with Bucky’s childish writing in between.

‘Dear Granddad I love you from Jamie’  
‘I love you too Jamie’  
‘Dear Grannie can I have a biscuit love from Jamie’  
‘You can have two, don’t tell Granddad’  
‘I can read!’

There’s a lot of love in these pages, and I can see it warming Bucky, melting away a bit of that shield he’s armed himself with.

That morning, the shop is quiet, and we end up playing a game together to pass the time. We set each other challenges. First to find a book with a red and green cover. First to find a book with a picture of a cat in. First to find the word ‘snow’ in a book. Bucky starts off smiling, but by the afternoon, he’s laughing, properly, hand on his chest, head thrown back. I wonder when the last time he did that was before.

We have a routine now. I visit James in the morning, and Bucky in the afternoon, giving him something to look forward to in the quiet care home. On Saturday, Bucky sets off for his visit, but asks me to keep the shop open a little later and wait for him to come back, instead of locking the door behind me. A little after 6, he arrives, with a takeaway and a couple of bottles of wine.

“To celebrate. And to say thank you. You’ve brought this shop to life this week.” He kisses me on the cheek as he passes me a glass of wine, and I feel as if wasn’t just the shop that came to life this week.

We lock the doors, and sit in the armchairs, eating and then drinking. I can’t help but contrast this Bucky with the one just a few weeks ago. He’s half slumped, with his legs stretched out and resting on a box of books, and his glass of wine is resting on his chest. He’s drunk much more than me. I’m trying to keep myself back, so I don’t end up acting like a fool as usual, so Bucky’s a lot more drunk than I am. Steve has climbed up and sat on his lap, and Bucky is running one finger down his spine. Steve’s fur stands up behind the trailing finger, and feel my own skin respond as I watch. 

It’s my fault what happens. I make the mistake of telling him how relaxed he looks. 

He sighs quietly, eyes half closed. “I am. I haven’t felt this relaxed for so long, but it’s a temporary blip. Once Granddad’s all right, I’ve got to suit up again, get back to my ‘real’ life.”

“You don’t look like you want to,” I say, quietly.

He looks up at me, direct eye contact that makes my skin shiver, and although it’s getting dark, his eyes catch the light. He scratches Steve lightly on the head, sighs again.

“I don’t.”

James had told me earlier that day that Bucky wasn’t happy. Or rather, he was, here, but not in his real life, to which he knew he’d have to return. James said Bucky wouldn’t admit it but he’s made a life that’s not right for him, and he’s forgotten too much of what made him happy in the past. I think about the children’s drawings, the way he laughed at our game.

“Maybe you should make some changes? If you’re not happy.”

I guess that’s too close to the bone. Bucky sits up, dislodging Steve who yowls and stalks off. 

“You’re one to talk. I don’t see you making any changes. You told me this week you were going to, that you had no job or friends or life, but what are you doing about it? It’s not that easy, you can’t just walk away, not when you have a real job, and a fiancée, and a home. You wouldn’t know.”

That hurts, and I think he knows it, I think he wanted it to. He let me get too close and he’s fighting back, scared, putting up that shield. I blink away some tipsy tears.

“You’re right, I’m not changing anything. I’m sorry, I overstepped the line.” I stand up, sniffing, and for a moment I think I see regret in his eyes but I pick up my coat and leave.

On Sunday, the shop is shut so I stay at home. My phone beeps but I ignore it until the evening, feeling bruised and sad. Bucky’s right, I can’t preach about change when I never make any myself. I finally give in, in the evening, and read my text. Having spent the week in company, I’m missing it. Missing Bucky. And I’m hoping it’s from him.

‘I’m really sorry. Will you let me apologise, make it up to you? In person?’

I reply, telling him I’ll see him in the morning. That night I dream about Bucky laughing.

On Monday morning, I go back to the shop. The frown lines have deepened again, and his back is tense. He looks nervous, and as soon as I walk in, he starts to speak. The shop isn’t open yet, and he locks the door behind me.

“I had no right to criticise you. I’m sorry. I lash out when I’m feeling defensive but you’ve done nothing by help me, been nothing but nice to me, to James, to all the customers. You didn’t deserve what I said. I was mean, because… I’m scared.” He blows out his breath, as if he’s been holding it. He’s sitting in a chair, staring out of the window as if it’s easier than meeting my eye. When he speaks again, it’s quiet. He turns his head towards me and his eyes look lost.

“How do you do it, how do you risk getting close to people? I lost my Dad, my Mum, Dot. I see Granddad, he lost so many friends during the war, he lost his son, his wife, and he still lets people get close, even knowing how much it’ll hurt. How does he do it? How do you?”

I pause, trying to decide how to answer, and he turns away again, staring out of the window.

“It’s a risk, yes. But I don’t think you’re any happier not letting people get close, than you would be if you took that risk. Do you?”

He turns now and meets my eyes, and in the end it’s me that has to blink and look away, because the gaze is just too intense, and I want to read more into it than is really there.

The shop is quiet that day, and we talk more, about deeper subjects than we have done the previous week. Perhaps it’s because he knows he won’t be here much longer, he can open up to me because soon he’ll be gone. I barely need to respond, he just needs to get the words out, like a flood.

He tells me he’s not happy. He’s earning a lot of money, more than most people his age. He travels, stays in hotels and comes home and feels as if he’s in another one. He has a beautiful house, designer clothes, an expensive car, a beautiful fiancée. Everything anyone could want, but he tells me that he misses the days growing up, in this shop. Hiding in dusty corners to read and write, sneaking coffee when his Grannie wasn’t looking. Daydreaming and achieving nothing. But then he had to grow up, he tells me. Daydreaming and dusty books aren’t for adults. You have to achieve, to have all the accessories of success, to show the world a front. It’s painful to hear, but I don’t offer advice. He can see the flaws in his life, he doesn’t need someone to point them out.

Things drift back to normal. I don’t hold grudges, and I can see Bucky’s pain in the way he’s lived for too long. Once he has let everything out of his system, we fall into an easy pattern of serving customers, placing orders. Bucky starts to talk about his ideas for the shop, and they’re sweet, and fitting, then he cuts himself off each time, pointing out he’s just marking time and there’s no point in making changes. Still, he settles in, and starts to charm the customers just like his Granddad.

There’s one day when I’ve been asked about a book that I’ve never heard of, and I’m about to tell the customer that I can’t help, when he suddenly calls “wait a sec!” and I see him squatting down to peer at a pile of books in the far corner of the shop. He pulls it out triumphantly and I realise the magic has got to him too. I raise my arms in a silent cheer and he sees, sketching a bow to me at his success, and we share a smile. 

I could have carried on like this, it’s a dream existence, but dreams have to come to an end. The first I’m aware of the change is the sound of heels clicking on the shop floor. I look up from where I’m kneeling down, mopping up after a leak, to see long legs, high heels, tight skirt, perfect body. I’m the potato on the floor, covered in damp and dust. She eyes me as I stand up, and I feel myself withering under her gaze.

“I’m here to see Jamie Barnes.”

There’s only one person this can be, and I notice she doesn’t call him Bucky, although that’s what he calls himself.

Bucky has gone out to buy some supplies and has his arms loaded as he comes in. He’s pushing the door open with his back, setting the bell jangling, so he doesn’t see her as he calls out.

“Coffee and pastries, all anyone could want!”

He turns, stops. Freezes. Their eyes meet, and I see her take in his messy hair, dressed-down clothes, arms full of shopping. It’s only a second, then they’re both stepping forward, embracing awkwardly over the parcels, both talking at once.

“Oh my god! My darling, you didn’t tell me you were coming!”

“I’ve missed you sweetheart!”

I take the opportunity to retreat, stepping behind some shelves and pretending to rearrange the books, so I don’t have to see Bucky pile the shopping on the counter then turn and lean down to hold her, and kiss her. I pretend I don’t notice the way my heart is thumping, or my eyes stinging. All dreams have to come to an end, and I’ve just woken up.


	8. Chapter 8

One thing I’ve learned in life, is how to put on an act, and boy am I glad of that right now. I’m standing and pretending to reshelve some books when Bucky rounds the corner of the shelves, fiancée in tow. He’s smiling at me and it hurts. What a fool I am. But I put on the act. I straighten up from my crouch, all wide-eyed excitement, as he speaks.

“Hey, I want you to meet my fiancée, this is Maria.”

He’s holding her by the hand, pulling her along behind him, and I hold out my hand to shake hers as he introduces me. Her handshake is firm and sure, much more confident than I feel.

“Really lovely to meet you Maria, Bucky’s told me all about you!”

This is a lie, a complete lie. I realise that until just now, I didn’t even know her name. Bucky’s told me almost nothing about her, and James just refers to her as ‘that girl Jamie’s engaged to’. Bucky looks at me and his smile is grateful. My smile, in contrast, feels forced.

“You two must want to catch up, I’ll mind the shop for you Bucky,” I say. It’s the right thing to do, and that is more important than doing the thing you _want_ to do. And I realise that right now what I want to do is to pull Bucky’s hand out of Maria’s, shake him, and shout ‘she’s not right for you, she’ll take you back to that life you hate!’

I try not to think about why Bucky hasn’t talked about Maria. I don’t know what she does for a job, or what they enjoy doing together, or where they met. I bury those questions down deep, because it’s none of my business, and even deeper down I bury the realisation that I’m jealous. Jealous of her holding Bucky’s hand, jealous of the kiss he gave her. I can’t think like that so I bury it away where it won’t resurface, and I squeeze past them to the counter. There’s no customers in the shop so it’s not like I need to stand behind the counter, but I want that solid surface to rest my hands on, and I want that distance between us.

Maria steps back out from behind the shelves and gives me a smile.

“Thanks, that’d be great. We haven’t seen each other in too long!” She turns to Bucky, runs her hand down the front of his shirt. “Go get changed Jamie, you don’t even look like you anymore!”

She’s wrong. I mean, it’s true. He doesn’t look like the scowling, tense, unhappy man who arrived. But now he looks like who he really is. Relaxed, happy. But he’s given her a nod and walked past me to the stairs to the flat, and he’s not caught my eye at all. 

As Bucky runs up the stairs, an awkward silence falls in the shop. I don’t like to ask ‘so how’s work?’ when I have no idea what she does, or ‘how are you?’ when I don’t know her. I settle for a generic ‘how was your journey?’ because I hate awkward silences. I’m having to force down my resentment against this woman because she’s done nothing wrong and she seems to make Bucky happy. I know it’s only my own jealousy that’s making me judge her, and not something she’s done, but judge her I am.

She answers me, describing a long drive and the difficulty of parking but I’m not listening, I’m judging. Sadly, she’s scoring highly. She is beautiful. Tall, impossibly thin, cheekbones to die for, long brown hair in some complicated hairdo. She’s dressed in expensive looking clothes and I can see what a stunning couple she and Bucky must make when he’s in his suit. No wonder she sent him to get changed. 

I make the mistake of glancing down and all I can do is judge myself now. Shorter than her, on the pudgy side, cheekbones what cheekbones!? Mousy brown hair in some complicated unbrushed bird nest. I’m dressed in seen-better-days clothes and I can see how laughable it is that I have these buried deep feelings. Because I do. I have feelings for Bucky. What an idiot.

She’s stopped talking while I’ve been thinking and I have no idea what she’s said, so I nod and put on a bland smile and pray for a customer. Instead, I get Steve. She appears from behind a chair and saunters across the floor to examine the new arrival. Steve rubs against her legs and Maria looks down.

“That’s Steve. She belongs to Bucky’s Granddad,” I say, introducing them, but she steps sideways away from Steve and ignores me. Steve obviously takes this as a challenge, and follows, tangling between Maria’s legs. Just as Bucky did a few weeks ago, she nudges Steve away with her foot. Undeterred, Steve stretches up, her front paws digging into Maria’s skirt as she purrs.

“Get off me!” Maria shoves Steve’s paws downwards but her claws catch and Steve is stuck. Maria tries to prize her claws out and as she does so, a long thread pulls out of the fabric. “Jesus, damn creature,” I hear her say as Steve stalks off, tail twitching. Maria is bending over and inspecting her skirt. She straightens, and I see that even when she’s scowling, she’s still beautiful. Beautiful but terrifying. She’s speaking through gritted teeth, tells me the skirt is by some designer that I have no clue about.

“Oh. Dear. Um, sorry.” I don’t know why I’m apologising when Steve’s not even my cat, but I feel as if I’m being blamed. “Steve’s used to lots of people, she’s being friendly.” I smile, trying to soften her up a bit and at the same time wishing I wasn’t always trying to people-please, to appease, to be a friend.

It’s not working anyway. Maria stares at me as if I’m insane. “It’s a cat. It’s not a person.”

I just think things can’t even get more awkward when the door behind me bangs open and Bucky appears. He’s back in a suit, although his shirt is unbuttoned at the top and there’s no tie. He’s shaved, skin looking strokeably soft, and he’s put something in his hair, so it’s not flopping fluffily any more. He busies himself in looking through his wallet as he speaks to me, and I get the feeling he’s trying to avoid meeting my gaze.

“I appreciate this, thanks for helping out. We’ll be back in a couple of hours, but call me if you need anything?”

Finally, he has to look up and his eyes look guilty as they quickly meet mine then turn away. He reaches out for Maria’s hand as they walk to the door. The shop’s small enough that I can hear them as they leave, hear Maria speak.

“Need you? Jeez Jamie, it’s not like this place is over run with customers.” The bell rings as the door opens, then they’re gone.

Steve jumps up onto the counter and rubs against my arm, and I stroke him while I talk. “I do not like her Steve. I’m glad you tore her skirt. She called you an it!” I know, deep down, it’s not the way she treated Steve that’s my issue. It’s not even her general manner, people can be who they want to be. It’s what she might do to Bucky. Or Jamie, as she insists. How she might make him feel, turn him back into the way he used to be. How she might take him away. From me.

A few customers come and go, and I drink some coffee, and tidy up a little, then it’s 4pm and when the door opens, it’s them. Bucky holds the door open for her and is carrying a suitcase in. I guess she’s staying up in the flat then. I wonder how James will feel about that.

Bucky gives me a smile, and I’m glad to see he’s making eye contact again. His shoulders are back and the line between his eyes has returned, and it makes me sad, but I can’t dictate how someone else lives their life.

“Everything OK here?” he asks, and I nod. “Listen, would you be OK to stay a bit longer? I’d like to take Maria to see Granddad, they’ve never met...”

I say yes, of course. I like it here and I want to be helpful. Bucky opens the door to the stairs and leads Maria up, carrying her suitcase. He shuts the door behind them and the footsteps fade. I serve another customer, then the door re-opens and they both appear again, Bucky still carrying the suitcase. His eyes look even sadder, and she looks furious. They’re obviously in the middle of a disagreement, her voice hissing at him.

“… expect me to just sneeze for the next few days? Bloody thoughtless.”

I keep my head low and Bucky once again avoids meeting my gaze. The comfortable way we were together has gone. I’d forgotten that James told me Bucky’s fiancée was allergic to cats. Steve lives between the shop and the flat, and although James keeps things tidy and clean, no doubt there’s cat hair around. I’m only slightly ashamed to admit I feel a spark of glee inside me.

She sniffs and I notice her eyes are red. I’m guessing it’s allergies and not tears, she doesn’t strike me as the type. She sniffs again, and sighs.

“Come on then. Let’s go see James, and then we’ll check into a hotel. You can get your stuff after, I need some clean air.” She walks to the door, opens it, and leaves, standing outside waiting. Bucky gives me an embarrassed smile so I pretend not to have noticed anything untoward.

“Give James my love, tell him I’ll see him soon. I’m fine here, I’ll see…” I pause. “Shall I see you tomorrow?” It occurs to me that Bucky might not need me helping out if Maria is here, although I can’t quite picture her restacking dusty books or mopping up leaks.

“Definitely. Please. Yes, please come tomorrow,” Bucky says, and leaves in a hurry. I tell myself I’m imagining the need in his voice.

I close up the shop about 5, lock up, feed Steve, and leave. Bucky and Maria haven’t returned and I try not to think about the happy family scene at James’ care home. I know how much Bucky’s happiness means to James, and I’m sure he’ll be excited to meet the woman Bucky loves. He’s probably already thinking about becoming a great-granddad and I know he’ll welcome anyone Bucky cares about. I try _not_ to think about it. But I do, a little too much. I don’t sleep well.

The next morning I set off to visit James as normal, picking up a paper and some chocolate for him, as I know he has a sweet tooth. I smile as I sit on the bus, thinking that I’ll put it down at the far end of the room and tell him he has to get it himself, as I know he’s not doing his walking exercises as often as he should. No matter what, James will always be my friend.

He’s not in the lounge when I get to the home, and I’m a little worried as he’s usually up. I knock on his bedroom door and find him sitting in a chair, staring out the window.

“Hey, James?” I say and he turns to look at me. He looks tired and sad. Tired, sad, and old, although he smiles when he sees me and the smile reaches his eyes. I lean down and kiss his cheek, putting the paper and the chocolate on a table nearby, sensing he’s not in the mood for jokes.

“Is everything OK? Your hip? You haven’t hurt it?” I’m holding his hand and he gives it a little squeeze.

“No, all shipshape doll,” he smiles again but it’s forced. “Just a little tired out.” He looks out at the view for a moment longer then continues. “So Bucky came by yesterday. With that girl he’s engaged to. Maria.” He spins out her name as if he’s testing it on his tongue. 

“She came to the shop, I’ve met her.” At that, he turns to look at me.

“What’d you make of her then?”

I have to be polite. This is his Granddaughter-in-Law-To-Be, and he’s an old man who wants to believe his grandson will be happy. “She’s very beautiful isn’t she, her and Bucky’ll make a really gorgeous bride and groom.” Even as I’m hating myself for only being able to comment on her looks, I’m also hating myself for the mental image of their wedding.

“And?” James says.

“And you must have enjoyed meeting her at last!” 

Avoidance. Classic tactic. Unfortunately, a little too obvious. James glared at me in mock outrage. “Don’t dodge the topic. What’d you think of her?”

I’m a bitch. I’m an evil horrible bitch who will go to hell. “She called Steve an _it_!” My comment at least had the benefit of making James laugh, as I loaded every ounce of shock and horror into my voice. He patted my hand and clutched at his chest then rested his head back, looking more relaxed when I came in.

“She’s not right for my boy, you know. Seeing him these last few weeks, he’s gone from that stick up the ass man, back to my happy boy. Then today, he sat there stiff as a board again and listened as she started talking about ‘when Jamie is back home’ and ‘it won’t be long until we can leave’. She was polite, I’ll give her that, brought up proper, but no humanity. Ice maiden.”

I tried to reassure James, that Bucky obviously loved her, that he was happy, but I wasn’t convinced. Between the fact he’d never even told me her name, to the way he’d spoken about the danger of letting people near you, I was worried for him, worried that he was making a choice out of fear, or appearances, rather than taking the risk. I couldn’t trust my judgement though. As I sat on the bus going back home, I realised that I’d fallen hard for Bucky. I needed to step back, let him live his life.

I go into work that day, determined to be a better person. What can I say, I’m always trying to be better. One day I might even make it. Bucky had become a friend, and the right thing was to wish a friend well. Maria had had a long drive and was probably worried about Bucky, so it was no wonder she had been a bit off. Convinced? Me either. I wanted Bucky to be happy, but I wanted him to be happy with me.

When I get to the shop, it’s shut. It’s nearly 11, so this is really odd. I have my own keys, so I go in and get things open, but I check my phone, wondering what’s happened. As part of my ‘leave Bucky alone’, I don’t text or ring – this is his shop and if he wants to open late, that’s not my business. There’s a little flurry of customers coming in, and whatever my mixed-up issues about Bucky, I really do love serving in the shop, so I get caught up in packing up orders and finding books and chatting, ignoring the sound of the door as it’s going off quite often.

As I say goodbye to someone at the counter, I notice Bucky standing nearby, leaning against one the shelves. I’m not sure how long he’s been there, but I get the feeling it’s been a little while. He’s wearing a suit and tie. He looks amazing, and awful. Amazing because he’s so good looking and he really does scrub up well. Awful because he has bags under his eyes and he seems withdrawn. When he sees I’ve noticed him, he steps forward. His voice is quieter than normal, rumbling straight through me.

“You really do love this place, don’t you?” he says, but even as I nod and start to speak, he carries on. “It does get into you.” He pauses and takes a deep breath, straightening his shoulders and looking at me directly. “But, it was only ever a temporary stopgap. I spoke to the nurses last night. Granddad’s doing well with his physio. Maria and I talked. I’ll find him a more accessible flat. Pay for a carer to come in to help him every day. And, would you be able to stay on here, until he’s on his feet? Paid, of course.”

He’s all business and I’m wondering how much of these plans have come from Maria, and how much Bucky or James have had any say. In fact, I wonder if James even knows yet. He’s reeling off his list of plans almost on one breath, as if he needs to get everything out before he loses his place, or his nerve, but then he stops and when he speaks again his voice is softer.

“It suits you here. The customers love you, and you love the job. You can tell. You light up when you’re here.”

He suddenly flushes as if he didn’t mean to say that, and I suspect I do the same.  
“Of course I’ll work here. Are you – are you leaving soon then? How’s James? He’ll miss you so much.” I see his jaw clench at that, and I’m not sure if it’s guilt at leaving or anger that I mentioned it.

“I’m going to see him soon. Maria’s just picking up some stuff, then I’ll pack, and see James, and go.”

“Today?!” I blurt out, unintentionally, and I’m horrified to find that my eyes are welling up. James, looking down at his feet, had lifted his head as I spoke, and must have seen the look on my face. I’d thought, somehow, that he’d stay longer. Another week or two. Time to get used to the idea of him going. His eyes meet mine and now I have to look away, fussing with some papers on the desk, furious with myself for being so pathetic. I sense him step forward until there’s only the counter separating us but I refuse to look up.

“Maria doesn’t want to miss too much work – and I’ve had a lot of time off now”, he says then adds quietly, “I’ll miss you.” My hand closes tightly around a book but I pretend not to have heard. Then the door opens and the moment is gone.

Looking up, I see Maria entering. She’s dressed immaculately again and in my fragile state, I’m suddenly full of hatred for my worthless unlovable self. I’ve set myself up with this fantasy world where Bucky chooses to stay and run the bookshop with me, over his successful job and fancy house and beautiful fiancée. I’m an idiot, and it’s my fault, not theirs.

So, I put on the most welcoming smile I can and don’t let myself wonder at how stiff they look standing next to each other. Bucky seems to relax a little, seeing my behaviour becoming more normal, then Steve comes and curls around him again, yowling. I feel like doing much the same, especially when Bucky scoops him up and cradles him like a baby before rubbing his face into Steve’s belly fur, Steve’s paws kneading Bucky’s hair in delight.

Maria and I both stand and watch, bemused, as Bucky ignores us and starts speaking to the cat, still half buried in his fur.

“Ohhhh I’m going to miss you Stevie. You’re such a good cat, yes you are, you big furball.” Personally I think it’s adorable and when he starts to rub his nose against Steve’s, I can’t help snorting out a laugh. That seems to break the spell, and Bucky looks up, giving me one of his genuine big smiles, that shatters my heart. Maria meanwhile has stepped away.

“What has got into you? You know I’m allergic and now you’re going to have cat fur all over you. You’re going to have to change before you pack now or I’m going to be sneezing all the way in the car.”

Bucky leans forward and puts Steve into my arms, and I hold onto the cat for comfort. Maria and Bucky walk past me and up the stairs to the flat. The door doesn’t quite shut behind them, although I don’t notice, with my head now rubbing up against Steve, using him to dry my eyes.

I look up suddenly as I hear their voices carry down the stairs. The shop is empty and there’s no other noise to hide their conversation. I know I should shut the door but I’m angry and scared and hurt and not making good decisions. It is Maria’s voice I’ve heard, sharp and upset.

“What are you doing? Put a goddam suit on, not that stuff! I don’t know you any more Jamie. You don’t dress like you, you don’t act like you. The clothes, the cat, the… slumming it. Our flat, your work, doesn’t any of that matter anymore? Don’t _I?_ ” 

I want to be able to hate her, I do. But she’s not a one-dimensional evil character. She’s a human, with flaws, just like me. She sounds upset, broken. Her fiancée has been away for weeks, probably longer than she’d expected and when she gets here, he looks settled in and happy, as if he’s made a new life away from her. Nobody, however much of a tough exterior they put on, wants to feel abandoned, wants their life to be replaced so easily. I can hear tears in her voice and I feel guilt in the pit of my stomach that I’ve ignored how she must feel.

Bucky’s voice, deeper, doesn’t carry as well. I hear it rumble but only make out occasional words. Whatever he’s said though, it hasn’t worked because suddenly Maria’s voice comes through again, higher and louder than before. 

They say that those who eavesdrop never hear good of themselves. They’re right. 

“Seriously?! You’ve left our home, our life together, your job, for _this_? This pokey flat, that crappy shop, and shit, for whoever – whatever - that is downstairs? I know we’ve had our difficulties Jamie, and I know I’m not perfect, but God! Standards? Is there really any fucking comparison between me and _her_?”

For a moment, I think she’s talking about Steve. But then it hits me. Steve is an it. She’s talking about me. Now I hate her but mostly I want to cry. She’s right. Look at her, and look at me. There is no comparison. I feel as if I’ve been punched and my breathing is going wrong as I fight off tears. I can’t be here when they come downstairs. I don’t want to see either of them again. 

I scribble a note for Bucky. I’m not even sure if what it says makes sense, then I rush out of the shop, locking it behind me. I know I should go home but I can’t, not yet. I sit in the café across the street, where I can just make out the bookshop. A few minutes later, I see them come out, Bucky relocking the door behind them. He’s wearing jeans and a leather jacket I recognise as James’s, the clothes that Maria must have objected to. But he’s carrying the suitcase he had when he first arrived, and it looks heavy. He’s not intending to come back any time soon. They cross the street and climb into Maria’s car. The car drives past the café but neither head turns this way.

Then they’re gone, and now I can cry.


	9. Chapter 9

When I’m sure they’ve gone, I go back to the shop. I don’t want to go home, alone, and there’s a part of me hoping there’ll be a note from Bucky, something to hold on to. There isn’t. Steve’s playing with something on the floor when I walk in, scrabbling under the counter, but she runs over to me when I walk in. I shut all the blinds and lock the door, leaving the light off, then curl up in a chair, and cry.

I cry for my own stupidity, for letting myself fall for someone; for having nothing else in my life; for James, alone in the care home, away from his only family. I cry for a long time, until it hurts to breath, until my skin feels raw with the salt tears. Steve is sitting on the arm of the chair next to me, I’m curled up, hugging my knees, glad that my joints are aching and my clothes are digging in and I hurt. I want to hurt. It’s what I deserve.

Eventually, you have to stop crying. Your body stops for you, even when your heart carries on. I was exhausted, too tired to be angry with myself any more. Too tired to go home. So I did something I probably shouldn’t have. I tucked Steve under one arm, and walked up the stairs into the flat. Kicking off my jeans, I lay down in the bed, just for a little bit, and tried to pretend Bucky was there with me.

Of course, I fell fast asleep and woke the next morning, confused and sore. I blinked and looked around, then leapt out of bed, ashamed. In the bathroom I confronted the damage that the tears had wrought. My eyes were red and swollen, my cheeks looked rough and sore. The rest of me looked as disastrous as always. I pulled on yesterday’s jeans and splashed some water on my face, but deep down I didn’t care.

Downstairs, I fed Steve again but she didn’t come when I called. Going out into the shop, I found her scrabbling under the counter again but when I shook her food box, she scampered in as if she hadn’t eaten for a week. 

I opened the shop every day that week, went through the motions of selling and stocking and locking up. I smiled and made coffee and played with children, and then at night I went home to my own flat and sat in the dark alone. I visited James every day but the spark had gone out of both our lives and I had little to tell him. I ate badly – either nothing, or too much – and I didn’t sleep, and I cried.

On Friday, I got a text from Bucky. It was short, to the point. It hurt. ‘Accountant coming Monday. That OK? B.’ I replied saying it was fine, but he didn’t respond. And so on Monday, after a lonely weekend, where I’d drunk alone, too much, and forgotten to eat, the accountant came. I showed him the accounts notebook, the system that Bucky had set up to record orders, the cashing up. He nodded, took away receipts, muttered about valuations.

On Tuesday, another text. ‘Estate agent coming Thursday. That OK?’ Estate agent. So Bucky meant to sell the shop? Sell James’ home, my job. The place where he grew up, where he was happy. I cried more, and drank more. Yet again I replied and yet again he didn’t respond.

I replayed every memory of the weeks we’d spent together, and doubted every one. I’d been kidding myself that Bucky was my friend. I told myself I had nothing to offer, nothing anyone would want. I was a convenient shop assistant, a favour to his Granddad. A joke. I was ‘nothing compared to’ his fiancée. 

James was doing little better than I was. I made sure to visit him, it was the one thing every day that mattered to me. He looked old and sad, and spent a lot of time talking about the family that had gone, about the friends he’d lost. He asked me every day if I’d heard from Bucky, but I didn’t tell him about the estate agent.

On Thursday, I woke up when the alarm went off, but I couldn’t move. What I’d thought was a cold coming on the day before had worsened. A regime of poor food, excess alcohol, poor sleep, and depression, had left me susceptible to every virus. I was icily cold then feverishly hot, my body aching unbearably. My head throbbed every time I coughed, which was often. I tried to stand but felt so weak that my legs trembled and I fell back onto the bed, shaking. I felt sick and sore. My last coherent thought before I fell into a fevered sleep was Bucky. I sent him a text – ‘cant open shop, agent, ill im sorry’ – and then slept.

The only time I left my bed on Thursday or Friday, was to crawl to the bathroom to be sick. Each movement left me weaker, my head throbbing, my brain in a fog. I drank a little water from the tap but couldn’t have made it to the kitchen to get a glass. I slept, or lay half-conscious, unable to easily separate reality from fever-delirium. At one point, late on Friday, I heard my name being called, and a loud banging. The noise hurt my head, so I buried it under the pillow where the sweat stuck hair to my face. I slept again. 

By Saturday morning, I was seriously dehydrated, although I couldn’t have said as much. My cough was rattling through me, leaving my chest aching. I was retching but there was nothing there. I heard the banging again, and my name, but was too weary to even move. I shut my eyes against the light seeping into the room around my curtains. When I opened them again, Bucky was standing there. Another hallucination.

He crouched down beside the bed, resting the back of his fingers on my forehead. Against my overheated skin, his hand felt as cold as metal. I tried to say his name, but my tongue was too dry and stuck to the roof of my mouth. I blinked, and the hallucination was gone, so I shut my eyes to sleep.

A moment later, I felt an arm snake around the back of my neck, and a glass being held to my mouth, a trickle of water wetting my lips. I opened my mouth to gulp the water down, and opened my eyes to see Bucky again. He was in a suit, the tie undone and askew, and was scowling. Too soon, he took the glass away, and laid my head back down. He sat down on the edge of the bed and I tried to stay awake to look at him. He twisted to look at me.

“I was worried. You didn’t answer my calls or texts. Nobody answered the door yesterday. I had to lie to a locksmith and say I’d lost my keys, to get in,” he said, watching me. This was a great hallucination. He put his hand out and brushed some of the sweaty hair off my face. I fell asleep again as he stroked my face.

When I woke up, the hallucination had gone. I felt slightly less wretched than before, although the difference was slight. I turned my head a little to ease my stiff neck, and noticed a glass of water by the bed. I knew I hadn’t put it there, but all I could think of was how nice it would be to drink. I pulled myself upright, my arms trembling with the effort, and gulped down the water. It was icy cold and felt delicious on my sore throat. I lay back, half-upright, and looked around the room. It looked different. My head hurt to think so it took a while, but I realised that it was… tidy.

Since Bucky had left, I’d taken to coming in from work, throwing my clothes in the corner, and getting into bed with a bottle of wine. The dirty clothes were all gone now, and the collection of wine bottles and glasses too. I swung around in bed and stood on trembling legs, walked slowly to the bedroom door. I had to hold onto the doorframe and walls as I left my bedroom and turned into the living room. It was only a small flat but it felt like a marathon to walk that far. There was a strange smell, and a clattering noise from the kitchen. I turned into the doorway to see a man’s back. He was standing by the stove, stirring a pot, and humming to himself. There was clean washing up stacked beside the sink and the washing machine was churning.

“Bucky?”

He turned and saw me. It was Bucky, of course. I was leaning on the doorway, worn out with illness, tiredness and confusion.

“Hey, you should not be out of bed,” he said, stepping across the kitchen to put an arm around me. “Come on, sit down for a second.” He pulled out a chair and I slumped into it. He crouched at my feet, looking up at me, his eyes an intense blue. “Give me a minute, I’ll change your bed.”

Before I could speak, he’d stood and walked past me. I heard cupboards opening and closing – luckily my flat was small enough there weren’t many places to look – then silence. A few minutes later, Bucky returned. I stood, holding onto the chair. Other than his name, I still hadn’t spoken. I started walking, still unsure exactly what was going on, why he was here, but I was too weak still and my knees gave way.

Before I could hit the ground, Bucky’s arms were around me. He lifted me up easily and carried me through to my room. Putting me down on the bed, I felt the cool crispness of fresh linen, such a change from the hot, tangled, sweaty sheets I’d been lying on. My eyes closed as the cold pillow comforted my head, but as I drifted off to sleep, I was sure I felt someone kiss my cheek.

When I next woke, the light coming through the curtains was softer, as if evening was coming. I’d slept more peacefully, the fever breaking at last although I still felt limp and exhausted. There was another glass of water by the bed, and again I eagerly gulped it down. The flat was silent and I was starting to doubt my own mind. Carefully I got up again and walked out, on legs as weak as a newborn lamb’s.

In the living room, Bucky was sitting on the couch, legs up on the coffee table. He was reading a book and rubbing something on his lap. For a moment, I flushed brightly, wondering what he was doing, before I realised he had a cat on his lap. Steve. Bucky and Steve were in my apartment. I felt lost.

I coughed, harshly, and Bucky turned around, the movement disturbing Steve who stretched and meowed.

“Hey sleepyhead! Any better? Can I get some medicine into you? You’ve fallen asleep every time I’ve tried.” He stood, lifting Steve onto the couch, and walked into the kitchen as he spoke. I followed, sitting down in the chair again, chilled and tired.

“What are you doing here Bucky?” I asked, my voice raspy and sore. He put some paracetamol and another glass of water beside me, nodding at me to take them, then pulled out another chair, sitting near enough that our knees were almost touching.

“I told you. I couldn’t get hold of you and you’d said you were ill. I was worried. So I came to look after you.”

I couldn’t quite process it. He gave me bits of information as he ran me a bath, found me clean pyjamas. He sat outside the bathroom door talking as I lay in the bath, making sure I didn’t fall asleep and drown. He continued talking as I sat back in bed, exhausted but feeling so much better for being clean, and gave me home-made soup to eat. It was as if he hadn’t been able to speak for the last two weeks, and needed to let everything out.

“When you didn’t reply to my note, I thought I’d blown it, our friendship, so I tried to keep it business-like, but, I don’t know, things felt different back at home,” he said, but before he could continue, I broke in.

“What note? You didn’t leave one.”

“Before we left. I came down out of the flat with Maria and you were gone, so I left you a note.” I turned in the bath, staring at the doorway, as if I could see him through the wood. 

“There was no note. I went back to the shop after you’d gone. There was no note.” I climbed gingerly out of the bath, the heat having sapped the last of my strength, and half-heartedly dried myself, before pulling pyjamas onto damp skin. As I started to clean my teeth, Bucky spoke again.

“I left a note, on the counter. Next to Steve.” A pause. “Saying I was sorry. Asking you to call me if you’d still be my friend. Telling you I needed a friend.”

I pulled the bathroom door open, and he looked up. He was sitting on a dining chair he’d pulled up outside the door, elbows resting on knees, head resting on hands. Now that water and rest had cleared my head a little, I could really see him. He looked terrible. His skin was grey, eyes red-lined, and the frown between his eyes was deep again.

“I never got that,” I said, and as if on cue, Steve rounded the corner, ignoring us both as he walked into my room and jumped on the bed. I remembered the way Steve had scratched at something under the counter in the shop when I’d been there. “Steve. She must have chased it.”

Bucky let out a groan of exasperation as I climbed into bed, too tired and emotional to give a thought to Bucky being in my bedroom. He nudged the cat with his hand and she glared at him, before moving over and climbing onto my lap. I felt teary, in that post-illness way, when every emotion seems too raw, your nerves exposed. I kept my head down and stroked Steve, watching as one or two tears darkened her fur. 

I felt the bed move and looked up to see Bucky sitting down. He looked at me, then lay back, on top of the duvet, resting his head back against the headboard. He looked exhausted, drained.

“Out of interest, if you’d got the note…?”

“I’d have replied. I’d have called.”

His eyes closed, briefly, and his face seemed to relax. Silence fell, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Steve purred on my lap, and my skin tingled from the hot bath. I was tired but had slept too much to sleep again just yet.

“Buck, why did you come all this way?”

He turned his head on the pillow to look at me. “I told you. I was worried. About you, and about Granddad. You were ill. The nurses say he’s gone downhill.”

I nodded. “He has. I’m sorry. To be honest, you look like you have too.”

He smiled, briefly. “I’m fine. Work stress is all.” I didn’t believe him.

“If you need a friend, I’m here to listen. And thank you. For coming here, for taking care of me.”

For a moment, just a moment, I thought he was going to talk. He needed to, it felt as if there was a flood of words dammed up inside him, but before he could speak, I was wracked with another bout of coughing, sending Steve off my lap and leaving me doubled over and struggling to breathe. By the time I was calm again, Bucky had stood. 

“You need to sleep. You’re not well.” He leant over and kissed my forehead, leaving my skin tingling. Before I could speak again, he’d left the room, and I heard the flat door shut.


	10. Chapter 10

I wasn’t well, that was true, and so that day I wasn’t up to thinking about Bucky or wondering why he’d come. After he left, I fell asleep again, a much healthier sleep. I’d eaten, drunk, washed, changed. I’d been cared for. It had been a long time since that happened.

I woke up the next morning to a soft warm body curled against mine. It had been a long time since that had happened too. I moved slightly, and the body moved with me. Then it climbed out from under the duvet and stalked off, tail in the air. Can’t have everything. I got out of bed gingerly, expecting to feel terrible, but I didn’t. Not great, but OK. Hungry, a little headachy, but human. 

I followed Steve into the kitchen, to find everything clean, laundered bedding folded on the side, dishes put away. Tidier than I’d left it for a long time. I felt a hot flush of shame at the thought that Bucky had seen how I’d been living. The depression I’d sunk into would leave me staring at dirty crockery, empty wine bottles, unwashed clothes, then just turning away, unable to even begin to deal with anything. While I’d been sleeping, Bucky had obviously been in and taken over. Even as I felt embarrassed, I felt a weight lift from me, that I could start afresh.

I opened a tin of tuna for Steve, and made myself tea and toast, then showered and dressed. By then, I’d pretty much used up my store of energy for the day, so Steve and I made a home for the day on the sofa, with Netflix, more tea, and blankets. I held my phone, and kept typing and deleting messages to Bucky. I needed to thank him, but couldn’t find the right words.

As it turned out, there was no need. Around lunchtime the front door opened, making me jump. Bucky walked in, and looked startled himself on seeing me up. Steve broke the awkward silence with a yowl, leaping from the arm of the sofa to Bucky’s shoulder and draping herself around his neck. We both smiled, and Bucky started to talk.

“I didn’t think you’d be up – should you be? You looked pretty shit yesterday to be frank.”

“I’m a lot better. Feel weak but on the mend. Thank you – really thank you – for looking after me,” I said, trying to put across the depth of my gratitude.

Bucky dismissed my words with a wave of his hand but I was determined he’d see how much it had meant to me. I stood up and walked towards him.

“No, I mean it, you came down here, all this way, to check up on me – and on James, I mean – and then… god this place was a mess, and I was a mess, and you just… did everything. Thank you.” I’d rested my hand on his arm as I spoke, and could feel the warmth of his skin through his shirt. I let my hand rest there a second longer than perhaps I should have done, before I pulled it away, then ducked my head and walked into the kitchen before I had to see the look on his face.

I busied myself putting on the kettle, pulling out cups and making coffee and when I got back to the living room, Bucky was sitting on the couch, legs on the coffee table and Steve stretched out on her back along his legs while he rubbed her stomach. I handed him some coffee and stepped over his legs, sitting down next to him on the sofa. I tried to sit as far away as possible, not to impose on his personal space, and realised that I was eyeing Steve with envy.

Bucky took a sip of coffee then turned and looked at me. “It was a mess in here. You, fair enough, you were ill, but this place looked… It looked like how I used to live, when I was depressed. Unable to even start to function, just getting up and existing using all your effort?”

I felt tears of shame prick my eyes, that he’d seen it. I didn’t know how to explain – I certainly couldn’t tell him that I’d fallen for him, but where to begin on the rest of it. On James, the job situation, being lonely. I opened my mouth then shut it again, not knowing what to say.

“You don’t have to say anything. It’s none of my business. I’m just glad I came down.” He squeezed my hand and I swallowed the tears down, grateful that he didn’t want to know more, because I was afraid to start.

Neither of us did much that day. I was still weak, and I was very unsure why Bucky was here, in my flat. He showed no signs of wanting to leave, of needing to go home. He drank coffee, he heated soup for us both, he petted Steve and we watched Netflix and chatted. It was like before, the ease of conversation. I’d already asked before why he was here, but I didn’t feel I’d had the full answer. I remembered him saying he’d left me a note saying he needed a friend, that things weren’t the same back at home, but he skirted around any difficult topics.

Eventually my eyes started to close, so Bucky moved Steve off his lap and said I should get to bed, and he should leave. 

“I’m staying in the shop flat. I’ll come check on you tomorrow, see how you are, the estate agent’s coming first thing then I’m going to see James,” he said as he shrugged his jacket back on. Before he left, I couldn’t help myself, I blurted out the first thing I could think of.

“Please don’t sell the shop, it’ll break James’s heart.” That wasn’t what I’d wanted to say. It mattered, but it wasn’t the deeper issue, of why he was here and there and back again and not knowing what he wanted. He paused before turning around to look at me.

“James is never going to be well enough to run it again. He’s 90, be reasonable. He deserves to rest,” he said, and his eyes were looking anywhere but at me. He was right, of course. James was old and frail now, but it still seemed so final. “Maria – the accountant that came down, he says there’s no profit in it.”

I’d noticed how that sentence had started, for all that he’d tried to cover it up. Sure, the accountant had looked over the books, but it was Maria who seemed to be pulling the strings here. I was angry, I knew I had no right to be, it was none of my business.

“What about what you think? It’s not Maria’s family!” I knew I’d made a mistake the minute the words came out. Bucky’s face hardened.

“It’s not yours either,” he said, quietly, and left.

I cried myself to sleep that night. 

Despite the poor sleep, I woke up feeling better, the rest and food having helped my body turn the corner. There was a real pleasure in feeling hungry and full of energy so I kept busy, continuing the work that Bucky had started sorting the flat, all while distracting myself from thoughts of him. I didn’t expect him to come around and agonised over whether to text him, but part way through the day, there was a loud knocking on the door. It was Bucky, and he looked frantic.

“I think you’d better come, it’s James. He’s in hospital. I have the car outside.”

I shoved my feet into some shoes, grabbed coat and bag, and followed him down the stairs. When we got into the car, he told me that he’d got a call in the morning saying James was being admitted, with a suspected heart attack. He’d been out there once to find James asleep, wired up to monitors. The doctor’s face was grave, talking about his age, and the impact of the hip surgery. When they’d asked Bucky to leave so they could perform some tests, he’d come to get me. I was too concerned about James to even think about the fact Bucky had wanted me there.

When we parked at the hospital and got out, I took a proper look at Bucky. His face was drawn and pale, and his hands were shaking. He stopped by the door and looked at me, distraught. 

“He’s the only family I’ve got, I can’t – I can’t lose him, I’m not ready, not now,” he said, his face crumpling. He looked like a child, utterly bewildered. I did what anyone would do, of course, and put my arms around him. There wasn’t anything I could say, it was unfair and heart-breaking, and that was reality. Maybe James would survive this, but at 90, we all knew there was an end coming.

I held Bucky while he cried, murmuring platitudes against his hair. I don’t think he heard me, lost in his own loneliness. Eventually he straightened, wiped his eyes on the back of his hand, drew in a shuddering breath. “Sorry, I just…” he started, but I shook my head.

“Don’t apologise, there’s absolutely no need,” I gave a half-smile, and put my hand on his arm. “You’re not alone Bucky.”

He closed his eyes, steeling himself, and we walked in. Bucky led the way through the hospital corridors to the ward, where James was still sleeping, blankets pulled up to his chin. I bent over and kissed his cheek, the skin feeling papery and dry under my lips. Bucky stood at the foot of the bed, just watching James sleep, before seeing the doctor walking by, and hastening off to catch him.

I wanted to talk to James, but had so little in my life to talk about. I told him Steve was well, living it up eating tuna at my flat, that I’d been ill which is why I hadn’t been able to visit, but then I ran out of things to say. I stroked his hand for a moment, but I felt the need to remind him that there were people there, waiting for him, calling him back. I glanced around for inspiration and spotted my bag on the chair. Pulling it over, yes! When I’d last left the shop I’d grabbed a book, and it had been left in there while I was ill.

Feeling a little silly, I cleared my throat, then started to read aloud. Within a few pages, I was lost in the book, glancing up at James every now and then, throwing in comments about the characters and the plot. My voice grew stronger, and I started putting on accents for some of the characters. It was only as I turned the page to a new chapter a little later that I realised Bucky was back. He’d pulled up a chair slightly behind mine and was smiling as he listened. When he saw I’d seen him, he pulled the chair forward, dragging it closer to mine so that he could reach over and hold James’ hand. He nodded slightly, gesturing for me to carry on. I felt myself flush but started reading again, now watching both the Barnes men out of the corner of my eye.

After almost an hour, my voice was drying up and I had to stop. I offered to fetch coffee from the machine in the corridor, glad of a chance to stretch my legs, and thinking I should give Bucky some time alone with James.

I put in the coins, idly watching the water swirl into the cups, bought some chocolate from another machine and then balancing it all precariously, walked back to the ward. I had my eyes down, watching the coffee to keep it from spilling, so it wasn’t until I was at the foot of the bed that I saw James’ eyes were open, and he was talking, and smiling. Weakly, yes, but he was there.

I spilt hot coffee on my hand in my delight, dumping the cups down on the table near the bed. Bucky turned and grinned at me and for a moment I held back, thinking I should let them be alone now, but James held out a hand, and Bucky beckoned me towards him, so I squeezed in, leaning over to kiss James again, then siting down by Bucky.

James’ voice was quiet and raspy, but there was colour in his cheeks now and the twinkle was coming back into his eye a little.

“Heard you readin’ sweets, thought I’d better wake up and check you weren’t turning the corner of the page down,” he said, smiling at me, and I laughed at the relief of hearing him joke. His eyes narrowed slightly as he looked from me to Bucky for a moment.

“Well now, don’t you two look right together. Just like me and Dot.”

I felt Bucky stiffen beside me, and reddened with humiliation. James knew full well that Bucky was engaged to Maria – Maria, who was a far better match for Bucky than I could ever be. I hid my embarrassment digging around in my bag, muttering about ‘getting back home’ and ‘giving you two some space’ but I felt Bucky’s eyes on me, and didn’t dare look up to see what I was sure would be laughter in his face.

-

James wasn’t out of the woods yet, and would need to be in hospital longer, and I knew that Bucky was right, that James couldn’t manage the shop any more. As I got home, my happiness at seeing James awake was tempered by the knowledge that soon the shop would be sold, and my reason for seeing Bucky would be gone.

I fed Steve, talking to her about James as I did so, then started to dig around in the fridge for food, before concluding there was nothing there. I wasn’t in the mood to go out and start shopping, so was considering a dinner of dry cereal and slightly-shrivelled apple, when my phone beeped. It was a text, from Bucky. 

‘Indian or Italian?’ I looked at it bemused before replying.

‘Are we talking languages I speak? Bucket list holidays?’

‘Food, you fool. Which do you prefer?’

‘Indian, why?’

‘Be there in about an hour’

That I hadn’t expected. Bucky had left on a sour note last night and it was only the drama over James that had brought us together. I felt butterflies in my stomach and remembering the hurry I’d left in that morning, flew around the flat tidying, brushing my hair, putting on clean clothes, all the while telling myself I was behaving like a child. 

When Bucky knocked on the door a little later, he was carrying a couple of bags, one of which clinked heavily, the other emitting delicious smells. I opened the door wide for him to enter, and he headed into the kitchen. I liked how easily he made himself at home.

He took off his coat and I was secretly pleased to see no suit and tie, but a more relaxed Bucky for a change. He was pulling cartons out of the bag, setting them out on the side, followed by two bottles of wine.

“Noticed you seemed to prefer white,” he said, and I grimaced at the thought of the last few weeks. “Always better when you don’t drink alone.” He stretched past me for some glasses on a shelf, making my nerves jangle with his nearness.

We sat on the couch, food boxes spread on the coffee table, wine bottle nearby, and talked about James. Bucky told me stories about his childhood with James and Dot, each memory seemingly stirring up a new one. Rollercoaster rides and candyfloss, birthday parties and school trips. We talked well into the evening, both drinking more than we should perhaps, food remains pushed aside. Bucky was slouched on the couch, legs stretched out on the floor, head resting back on a cushion. I was on the other end of the couch, curled up with my feet tucked underneath me, leaning sideways against the backrest, face turned towards Bucky. Steve was a barrier between us, sitting curled up against Bucky’s side.

I was feeling light-headed, the room a little blurry. Bucky had drunk more than me, and must have been feeling it too. When his phone started to ring, he fumbled to get it out of his pocket, almost dropping it on Steve who sat up and glared, before finally getting it the right way up. He stared at the screen as it continued to ring, then switched it off.

“Maria. I just can’t… not now,” he said under his breath. I sat completely still, unsure what to say, not wanting to say the wrong thing yet again, but it was as if I wasn’t there. He continued to look at the phone screen, the glow lighting his face enough that I could see him close his eyes for a moment when the voicemail alert suddenly beeped. He carefully leant forward and set the phone down on the table amongst the remains of our takeaway, then picked up his glass and drained it fast, slumping back against the couch with a sigh when it was empty.

Without turning to look at me, Bucky started to speak, started at last to open up. And as he did so, I could only wish I could go back in time and stop him, because there was nothing here that I wanted to hear.

“Me and Maria, we’re both damaged. Maria’s from a hard background. Her parents are, god they’re awful. No money for one, but no love either. So, she doesn’t know how to show it. And she’s scared. I know how she comes across but inside she’s a little kid who never had enough to eat, who was always wondering if they’d have clothes to wear. So now she’s in charge, won’t let anyone put her in that position again. She armours herself with money, surrounds herself with people who care about wealth and appearance because she doesn’t want to risk being hurt.”

I thought about the Maria I’d pictured in my mind, hard-edged and judgemental, and felt guilt. I’d let my own feelings for Bucky paint her as the bad guy, but she had issues of her own, had her own vulnerabilities. And Bucky obviously cared, wanted to save her. My eyes filled up with tipsy tears and I was glad of the evening light that would hide them.

“I think I’m the same. Oh, don’t get me wrong, we come from completely different backgrounds. James and Dot didn’t have much money but I never went without and I never went without love. But despite that we’ve ended up in the same place. She’s afraid of love because she’s near had it. I had it in spades and now I’m afraid because I know how much it hurts when it’s gone.”

Bucky’s voice was low and I had to strain to hear it. He was staring straight forwards, his left hand idly rubbing Steve’s back, her deep purring a soft contrast to his voice.

“Dad died. When I was just a kid. Gone, suddenly, never to come back. I watched mum, and Granddad and Grandma weep, and try and hide it like it was a shameful thing. Like it was important to bottle things up. I didn’t realise they were trying to protect me, I thought they were showing me to hide the way I felt. Then mum was gone too. She’d come back sometimes, take me out and shower me with gifts and love and tell me we’d be together then she’d vanish again. I never knew who was there for me. I know now but it’s too late. I don’t want to risk it any more. That’s why I avoid coming back here. One day…” His voice broke and he paused for a moment to gather himself. “One day, Granddad will be gone, then there’ll be nothing. I just can’t stand it.”

He sighed deeply and turned to me, but I was at a loss to know what to say. My heart ached for the little boy who’d lost his Dad, his Mum, never felt safe loving someone, or not until Maria, I guess. I was about to speak, feeling I needed to say something, anything, to acknowledge what he’d told me, when he let out a cynical laugh.

“Want a confession?” His voice was harder now, full of anger, but I didn’t feel threatened, this was anger at himself. “I’m not in love with Maria. Never have been. She’s not in love with me either. Both too screwed up for love. I don’t want to get hurt. She wants security. I’m useful to her, I’ve got money and connections and apparently I can be charming, but most importantly, I don’t love her. She doesn’t want to be loved, doesn’t know how.”

He turned away again, then sat up straight, resting his elbows on his knees. I wanted him to take all this back because there was too much pain in his voice.

“What matters, where we live, is how much money you have, are you wearing the right thing, what do you do for a living. She thrives on that. Her eyes sparkle, god she’s beautiful, she’s funny and intelligent and so beautiful. But it’s an act. It’s not real is it, a life like that? When we get to the end of the line, then what?”

He stood up and I quickly stood as well, the room spinning as I felt the effects of the alcohol. I started to say his name, but Bucky stepped forward and grabbed hold of my wrist, the sudden movement cutting off my words. My heart was racing, not knowing where this was going, then Bucky bent down and gently brushed his lips against mine. The softness of his movements was a contrast to the anger of his words. His lips pulled against my bottom lip and then he rested his forehead against mine, and when he continued to speak, his voice was quiet and desperately sad.

“It’s too late now though. We’re engaged, and I’m not so heartless that I’ll leave. She might not want love, but she doesn’t need any more hurt either.”

He let go of my wrist, and it was only as it throbbed that I realised he’d been holding it so tightly. His hand came up and stroked my cheek and I leant into the touch. He pulled back and I almost stumbled.

“So, I have to go through with it. Get married. Next month.”

Then he’d picked up his phone and his coat, and was gone. And I still hadn’t spoken.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This hasn't really gone how I wanted, but I got sent some not-very-nice anon messages on Tumblr about how crap my writing is so I just wanted to get it done, I guess. I'm sorry.

Waking up with a hangover is never fun. Waking up with a hangover on the couch, the morning sun burning your eyes, is less fun. Waking up hungover on a couch to the sound of the cat licking leftover takeaway from a plate, really not fun at all. But waking up, hungover, sun in your eyes, neck stiff, to the memory that the person you’ve fallen for is marrying someone else – someone they don’t love – and that there’s nothing you can do about it? That’s the worst. 

After Bucky had left, I’d been in shock – drunken confused shock. The sorrow I felt at his fear of loss, the pain in his voice, had been bad enough. Then his confession that he was marrying Maria because it was safer, less terrifying, to face a loveless future than one with risks, that broke my heart. Then just when I thought I couldn’t deal with any more emotions, he’d kissed me. I didn’t know what that kiss meant, it had been more, surely, than a kiss between friends, but what, and why, I didn’t know.

And so the rest of that night I had sat, and drunk more, and tried to get my thoughts in order. I’d long given up trying to deny my feelings for Bucky. I wanted him, wanted to be with him. I wanted to see the way he smiled when he was in the bookshop, I wanted to watch him stroke Steve on his lap, relaxed and at ease. I wanted to have the right to hold him when he was scared, to reassure him that he wasn’t alone, and that it was OK to let himself feel, because I’d be there for him. All this contentment and peace, I wanted for him, but more than that, I was selfish too. I wanted his eyes to look to mine when something made him smile, for that smile to be for me. I wanted to sit with him, feel him relax against me, the tension softening as I held his hand. I wanted him to let himself feel love, and I wanted that love to be for me.

I let go. A sob broke out of me, escaping my lungs with violence. Everything was wrong. Bucky was someone else’s, he was scared and sad, and I had no control, nothing I could do. I cried myself to sleep, on the couch, and woke up hungover and alone.

I kept away from the shop after that, still not quite well on Saturday, and the shop was closed on Sunday. I didn’t visit James either, afraid to give him my illness. The weekend was long and empty. There were no texts from Bucky, and I didn’t want to contact him, not knowing where to start, what the kiss had meant, what was happening. 

On Monday, I visited James in the hospital again. He seemed to be fading away. He was almost as pale as the hospital sheets and his hair was untidy, nothing like the dapper appearance he usually had. His skin was as papery as the books he sold, and he seemed just a shadow. When he saw me come in, and when he talked though, there were still sparks of his old personality coming through, especially when the conversation turned to Bucky or the bookshop. Then it was as if the magic had come back, channelled through the things he loved, to light up his eyes.

Because of my illness, I hadn’t been at the bookshop for over a week by the time I went back that day. I picked up my keys that morning and expected to find it locked up, dusty and unloved. My heart sank as I approached the shop, and so it was a surprise to see the blinds open, and customers walking out. I stepped back to let them leave, and saw Bucky through the window. He was leaning on one hand on the counter, gesturing with the other, his face open and alive. The man he was talking to was laughing, one hand clutched to his chest, head thrown back. I could feel my heart beat faster. I wanted to be able to capture this moment, to show it to Bucky, so he could see what it was to be happy, to be alive, to live fearlessly. What a joke though, what hypocrisy. My own life was alone and empty. But if I couldn’t have a life for myself, I wanted Bucky to have the one he deserved so much.

I slipped into the shop, hoping to be unnoticed but Bucky looked up and caught my eye. He slid out from behind the counter, a smile on his face. He was out of his suit again, jeans, a t-shirt, a dusting of stubble. I had to bite my cheek, secretly, to stop myself thinking, imagining what it would feel like to smooth my finger across his jawline, or run my hand down one arm. I hadn’t seen Bucky since that kiss, and yet my lips tingled as it if had been only moments before.

I wondered if Bucky even remembered the kiss. It had been all I’d thought about but the look on his face was the same one he always gave me.

“Hey! You better, properly better?” he said, putting his hand under my elbow as he spoke. I knew it was simply a gesture, meaningless, but shocks ran up my arm like electricity. I nodded, shifting my bag on my shoulder as an excuse to pull away, not wanting Bucky to pick up on how overwhelming I found his presence.

“I’m good, I’m sorry I wasn’t here, I didn’t expect the shop to be open.” I _was_ surprised, that he’d opened up again. He flushed, rubbing one hand over his jaw with a rasping sound.

“Yeah, I didn’t need to, but… I just wanted to,” he said, sheepish grin on his face, then turned away, withdrawing again before he let too much show. “Coffee? I’ve got cookies today. Sit down for a bit.”

The shop was quiet, a few people browsing the shelves, so I sat for a moment and Bucky brought me coffee, then left me alone while he dealt with a delivery arriving. He looked so content, I quickly grabbed a pencil and an old letter out of my bag, and started sketching him. I’d never show it to him, but this was what he looked like, happy. When he left, to marry Maria, this would be what I had left. This and the memory of the kiss.

I had my feet up, leaning on my knees sketching, drinking coffee and watching Bucky. The door opened and closed occasionally as people came and went, and there was a pleasant bustle in the air. Turning to Bucky, I could see that he was crouching down now to talk to a small boy who was showing him a book he’d chosen. I could picture James doing the same with Bucky as a child and it made me smile. Bucky listened seriously as the boy explained his choice, while the boy’s mum stood back and let her son lead. I watched as Bucky took the book and opened it up, while the boy showed him the pictures and chatted away. Bucky’s eyes smiled as he talked, and I quickly sketched again, eyes on the scene as the bell on the door rang again.

Eventually Bucky stood up and very seriously put the book into a bag and gave it back to the little boy, along with the change from the money had had paid. He kept his eyes on the little figure as he said goodbye, grinning as the boy high-fived him before running off with his mum. Bucky still had a smile on his face as he looked up from saying goodbye, and I finished the sketch, then I saw his smile falter. Turning my head to see what had caught his eye, I saw Maria. She was standing to the side of the doorway, leaning against some shelves, and watching him, looking as if she’d been there a while. She looked stunning, as before, as always. Model figure, the kind I’d never have, perfect clothes, glossy hair. Yet again, I felt myself cringe as I realised what a mess I always was. I wasn’t the kind who would ever be wanted, not when there was Maria. Then I remembered too, what Bucky had said about her early life, and I could see that this beauty was a shield, protecting her from the traumas of her past. Maybe we’d never be friends, but I could at least show compassion. I didn’t want to, I remembered what I’d overheard, the way she’d described me, but I had to try, to understand her.

“Hey Jamie,” she said, stepping forward, and that broke the silence, the overlong pause when Bucky had seen her. I turned back to my sketch quickly, hiding it under some books on the table nearby before either of them could see what I’d been drawing, but I didn’t turn away quickly enough, saw Bucky put his hand on Maria’s arm now, lean forward and kiss her lips. Not mine. Not this time. 

I tried to sink down into the chair, to become invisible, pretending to look out of the window, my thoughts a jumble. Maria had been rude about me, dismissed me. She was engaged to Bucky. Bucky didn’t love her, she didn’t love Bucky. Bucky had kissed me. I had no idea how to behave with any of this, so I was going for the mature option of hiding, but it was no good.

“Hey.” Maria’s voice. I turned and she was looking at me, standing away from Bucky now. “I heard you were ill, are you better now?”

I stood up hurriedly, aware of how poorly I compared to Maria. “Yes, thank you, it took a while, today’s my first day out really.” She was eyeing me thoughtfully and I could feel my skin heat up as I imagined her judging me, laughing at me, so I was surprised at her words. 

“I’m glad you’re better,” she paused, then continued. “I think I owe you an apology, I was kind of a bitch when I came before.” I faltered, stumbling over some denial, refusal, no, everything was fine. She smiled and I could see why anyone would fall for her, because the way the smile broke across her face was the kind of sight that would bring people flocking, make them do anything to see it again.

“No, I was. I’m sorry. I’ve had time to think since then. A lot.” At that she turned to Bucky again. “I think we need to talk.”

There’s no way that ever sounds anything less than ominous. Nobody follows ‘we need to talk’ with ‘I bought you a kitten’. Or not Maria anyway, given the allergies. My mind ran through the possibilities, a buyer for the shop probably, Bucky moving back with Maria to go back to work. 

I stood, like a fool, stomach sinking, while Bucky and Maria moved away slightly, towards the side of the shop. Their heads were close together as they talked quietly, and they looked beautiful together. Right. As the world should be. I blinked a few times, hurried to the counter to serve a customer, keeping my eyes carefully averted.

After the customer left the counter, Bucky approached with Maria. He had his hand on the small of her back and I was ashamed of the pang of jealousy that ran through me. 

“Are you OK to take over? If you’re not well enough, we can shut the shop, no problem.” I shook my head, assured him I was completely well, and he nodded. “We’re going out for a bit, if we’re not back in time, are you OK to lock up?” I nodded again and he gave me a half smile, before opening the flat door and heading up. Maria stayed downstairs, idly picking up a book on the counter and flicking through before turning to me.

“You like it here, the shop?” she asked, and seemed genuinely to want to know. I found myself wondering if I could be her friend, despite our rocky start. Would it be better to be near Bucky and his friend, her friend, if that was all I could have? 

“I do, I mean, I know it’s not as impressive as what you do, but I guess, it makes me happy, being here.”

“It shows. That you like it, I mean. Jamie’s Granddad calls it the ‘bookshop glow’, I see what he means. You got it when you found that woman her book.” She picked the book up again, weighing it against her hand. “Bucky got it with that little boy.” As she said that, she looked me straight in the eye and her mouth quirked in a half-smile. She turned then, sat down in a chair by the window, flicked through the pages of the book, the conversation over.

Bucky came downstairs soon after, in a suit and tie, quickly checking a few things with me before I watched him take Maria’s hand and walk out.

My mind wandered all the rest of the day, I’ll admit it. Every time the bell jangled, I’d look up in case it was Bucky returning. I berated myself each time I did it, but then the bell would ring and like a fool I’d look up again. Because seeing the man you’ve fallen for, walking in with his fiancée, is definitely worth seeing as soon as possible, right?

I was about to close up when they finally came in. I was serving the last customer, we were laughing about something when they came in, and as the customer left, Bucky locked the door behind him, turning the sign to ‘closed’. We made a little small talk, and I said I’d finish tidying and cashing up, so they headed up to the flat. The both looked tired, and I wondered what they’d been talking about.

They hadn’t reappeared by the time I’d finished, so I picked up my things and went home, feeding Steve, cleaning, anything to distract myself. I gave myself a good talking to, about how Bucky and Maria were together, that I shouldn’t read anything into the kiss, that it was all none of my business, and I should find another job, anything to just stop thinking about Bucky, but despite that, my mind would turn back to the kiss, to Bucky saying he didn’t love Maria, to what they were saying, doing, thinking. I went to bed, tossing and turning all night and woke in a sullen mood.

When I got to the shop that morning, everything was still locked up. I assumed they were both still in the flat, so set about opening up as quietly as possible. A little before 9, when I was just thinking about unlocking the door for the day, Bucky appeared. His face was unreadable, his shoulders tense. 

“Hey. Can we talk?” Ominous, again. “Don’t open up, not today. I want to talk to you. Come upstairs?”

I followed him up the stairs to James’ flat, following Bucky as we passed the pictures of his childhood and family. The flat was silent, with no sign of Maria, but before I had a chance to ask about her, Bucky sat down on a chair, and spoke.

“I kissed you, last week. You were drunk, do you remember?”

I sat down, hard, feeling my face heat. I couldn’t tell from his face if he was angry, upset, disappointed. I stumbled over my words, trying to avoid saying ‘of course I remember, it’s all I’ve thought of ever since.’

“I do, remember, I mean, I… why did you? I mean, it’s fine, I assume it’s just because you were drunk, and I’m sorry if…” I said, tailing off, unsure what I was apologising for.

Bucky leant forward in his chair, elbows resting on his knees, hands hanging loose and looked directly at me, the eye contact making my skin tingle.

“I just wanted to know what it felt like, just that once, to kiss someone who… who I wanted to kiss. Who made me feel comfortable, able to be myself. Made me want to risk being hurt, for the moments that made it worthwhile. To kiss someone who made my heart beat faster. I just wanted to allow myself that, before I couldn’t ever again.”

I sat on the couch, stunned. Was that me he was talking about, making his heart beat faster? I couldn’t speak, and he continued, never breaking eye contact.

“I know it was wrong, and I shouldn’t have put that on you.” Now he did break eye contact, rubbing one hand over tired eyes and running his fingers through his hair. “Everything’s changed, since I got back here. I feel different, I see things differently, I’m… I’m lost.” His mouth smiled though it never reached his eyes.

“Where’s Maria?” I asked, quietly. I had to ask. He couldn’t be talking like this if she was here somewhere, surely.

Bucky stood, pulling his phone out of his pocket, and moved to sit next to me. He turned on his phone, pressed the voice mail button, holding the phone out so I could hear. Maria’s voice came through.

“Jamie. No. Bucky, I never got used to that, did I? It wasn’t ‘right’, so I never even called you what you wanted. _Bucky_ , I think you know why I’m ringing. Cowardly, maybe, to do it on the phone, but it was easier. I’ve just left, you’re sleeping in your Granddad’s bed, it’s, god, it’s 3am, and I’m sitting in the car now, hoping you don’t wake up yet.

Hearing you today, talking about the shop, about James, how you kept correcting yourself, saying ‘I mean, if I was keeping it, which I’m not’, god Ja-Bucky. This is where you belong. You’ve never smiled at work like you do here. You’ve never looked as comfortable in yourself as you do dressed like that. God knows you look great in suits, but you look happy scruffy.”

She sighed, paused. I could hear the sound of rain on the car windscreen before she started speaking again. “I’m calling it off. The engagement. I’m going to do the right thing, the thing one of us should have done a long time ago. Oh sure, it’ll be the talk of the town but it’ll move on. 

Look, I know everyone calls me the ice queen, I’m not stupid, but I’m not going to marry someone who’s not happy. And I guess, you know, I want more. Seeing you, happy, has made me realise how damn stupid we’ve been Jamie. So let’s just be honest, ok. Or five years down the line we’ll be divorcing and it’ll be shit. Look…”

Then the line went dead. I looked up at Bucky but he kept his eyes down, and pressed something on the phone so another message started.

“God damn it!” I could hear the laughter in her voice. “I’m trying to be dramatic and the sodding message limit is too short.” She sighed again. “This is hard, I couldn’t say this to your face, but it needs saying. We never loved each other, really. I care about you, but I know you don’t love me. I’m jealous though, sure, because I've tried to be perfect and give you the perfect life and you've chosen dust and low profits. God, that’s why it’s hurt Jamie, why I pushed you to sell the shop, to get away, because it was giving you something I couldn’t. I guess the ice queen does have a heart, huh?” I could hear tears in her voice and felt for her, but was so grateful. She’d done what Bucky never would. He would never have broken things off, was too honourable. Honourable and scared.

The message continued, the quaver in her voice clearing as she tried to sound strong. “God, I’ve tried to be perfect, to look right, to act right, as if that might make me right, inside. But Jamie, seeing how you smiled at someone else, someone who wasn’t trying to fit in and match up, it hurt. And I didn’t want to be hurt again. But that’s my issue, not yours. Or hers. So I guess I’m grateful. Now you need to do the right thing too. Be brave. Stop being afraid to be happy. Run the bookshop, own a cat, dress like shit, get the girl.”

I looked up, startled at that, to find Bucky watching me. I didn’t know what she meant, about him smiling at someone else, getting the girl. I wanted to believe she meant me, but didn’t dare. What Bucky needed now was a friend, that was all.

“Bucky… I’m so sorry, I…don’t know what to say. But I’m here for you, if you need anything, I’m your friend.”

His head tilted to one side, the way it always did when he was thinking.

“Is that all you are?” My stomach lurched, I felt out of step with this conversation, not knowing where it was going. “I know how you feel, about me. I’m not stupid. No, actually I am stupid, because I know how you feel, and how I feel, and I didn’t do anything, it took Maria to do that.”

I was embarrassed that I’d been so obvious, that I’d let my feelings show, feelings for an engaged man, someone who’d just employed me to fill in in his Grandad’s absence, someone whose fiancée was everything anyone could want, while I was nothing anyone would want.

“Bucky, I’m sorry, I mean, if I made you feel awkward, I’m a disaster, god only knows what you thought when you walked into the shop and saw me, all paint stains and biscuit crumbs and look I’m really sorry, I’ll go open up, unless you prefer I go?”

I was rambling, my hands trembling. I stood up to go back downstairs, but Bucky stood too, close enough I could feel the warmth of him. He held onto my hands, stilled their shaking.

“I thought you looked amazing. You had that glow Grandad always got. Your eyes were sparkling, and it was like seeing what life could really be, for the first time in a long time.” I started to object, but he cupped my hand with his cheek, and ran his thumb over my lips, stopping me. “You can’t tell me what I find beautiful. It’s you.”

So that’s how it ends. With a kiss, as all good stories should. The kind of kiss that leaves you unable to catch your breath, leaves you dizzy with desire, unwilling to let go of the other person, needing their skin, their touch, their everything. Just like a story. But this isn’t a story, so the bad guy wasn’t all bad. Sometimes the bad guys do the right thing. Maria did, and thanks to her, there was a happy ending.

 

**Epilogue – two year later**

Bucky pushed open the door to the shop, and stepped past Steve who sat in the sun next to Little Steve, the new kitten we’d got to keep Old Steve company. I came out from behind the counter to meet Bucky.

The shop smelled warm, of coffee and cinnamon. There were people bustling around, the book group in the old office, a family in the children’s corner. 

“You ok?” He smiled at me, his eyes red-rimmed a little.

“Yeah, I will be.” He put his arms around me and rested his head on mine, and I held him, knowing that he needed this. 

It was a year now since James had died. He’d never been well enough to leave the care home in the end, but he’d made it to our wedding and insisted on being best man for Bucky. At the reception, he’d made a scandalous speech about his days in the army that had had us all howling, then insisted on the second dance with me, telling me about his days with Dot. His last year had been one that was filled with family, again, Bucky finally brave enough to show James how much he loved him even as he knew he’d have to face the heartbreak. 

And now on the anniversary of his death, he’d gone to be with James one more time. This time, he’d taken something to the gravesite beside the usual flowers. He tightened his arms around me, as far as he could around my 7-month bump.

“I left the scan picture there, I hope that’s OK. And you know, I’d swear I heard his voice.” He hugged me a little tighter, leant forward to whisper in my ear.

“He definitely said it should be James the fourth. I didn’t have the heart to tell him it’s a girl.”

He leant down to kiss my stomach, discounting the people nearby.

“Dorothy James Barnes,” he whispered against my skin. “Your Great Granddad says hi.” He stood up and kissed me again, every kiss as dizzying as the last, and I felt her kick against me. Time for a new story to begin.


End file.
